The Mixed Metaphor

Getting Hungry

2012-01-16T04:15:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a story comes along, a character comes along, that is so well crafted, that it speaks to the reader with clarity. The voice of that tale and that character resonate in your head for days and weeks after reading.

The Hunger Games trilogy is one of those stories.

Book 1.

It might not be particularly high brow of me, but I bloody LOVE the fairly specific genre of Young Adult Distopian Fiction. The Chaos Walking trilogy is one that springs to mind. Acoming of age story, set amongst impossible obstacles and unlikely odds. I may well just be carrying on the Australian obsession with the Coming of Age of characters, what with the fact that we still don't feel like a grown up country. But that is a whole 'nother post.

I am by no means the first one to pounce upon Suzanne Collins modern YA masterpiece. I read it two years ago, and at that stage the first two books had been out for some time. So there have been many others waxing lyrical about the wonders of the world Collins has created. But I just reread the series, in a holiday frenzy of reading. And it is even better on a second read. Because on the first read, I was so tense and nervous and excited, that my eye would often skip over to the bit where the action was resolved in an attempt to know what was happening next.

In the not too distant future, the society of America (and for all we know, the rest of the world as well) has collapsed. Risen from its post-civil war ashes is Panem. The central metropolis, The Capitol wields a tyrannical power over the agricultural and manufacturing districts, with police control and heavy rationing. The people of most districts live a miserable life, especially in Katniss Everdeen's native District 12. Starvation is common, as are mine collapses. Generally not an awesome fun time being had by her and her family.

Another weapon The Capitol wields against Panem's citizens is The Hunger Games. Each year 2 children from each district are sent to The Capitol to compete in a reality television, to the death competition.

Yes, it is not necessarily an original story line. There have been movies and TV shows that have had this To The Death Reality TV thing before. But I like this one better. I think Collins has much more to say about politics. And power. And surveillance. And the media. And the inherent issues of gender. Herein lies the power of spec-fic!

Now, I don't really want to give anything else away. I don't want to give any more plot points, because the richness of my reading experience of this book was a great deal to do with the fact that I didn't know what to expect. Rest assured that you will want to turn every page. You may, like me, swing past pages in an attempt to stop hyperventilating. The dudes at The Boy Factory love it. You will too.

Book 2.

But speaking of expectation management, you need to get your eyeballs onto this book BEFORE the film comes out (March 22nd, at West Bubblefuck cinemas, in case you were wondering.) I am currently grappling with expectation management. I'm thinking I'm going to need to defriend The Hunger Games peeps on Facebook and Twitter because their PR spin is NOT helping me keep my expectations effectively bottled.

And once the film is out, I am probably going to get into a little more detail of the plot and the questions that the trilogy raises. There will be spoilers. There will be high brow philosophical post-feminist, Marxist readings, and I promise they will be Reading Too Much Into It as ONLY an English Teacher can.

Book 3.

So do yourself a favour. IGNORE the testimonial on the front cover from Stephanie Meyers. It almost put me off too. But the fact that she of Twilight steaming pile of crap has read it and likes it makes it even more unforgivable that she created such a steaming pile of sexist crap.

Read these books. Double Dare.

The Art of Being Grateful

2012-01-15T06:51:00.000-08:00

So this year there is a new project. A Blog Project. A Blogject.

Some year ago, I was working in a fairly thankless job manning phones in an advertising agency. The delightful Gemma was working in a similarly thankless retail job. After a particularly average Friday, we were sprawled in her living room, feeling particularly strung out, frayed and spent. Fridayed.

And rather than stay there moping, and whining, and whinging about how utterly unlucky we were to be living our day to day dreary lives, we switched it up.

We began to make a list of all the things we were grateful for at that moment. One of the first ones was the glass of red wine that was in our hands.

And one of the more memorable from that evening was "I'm grateful nobody is yelling at me right now."

A decade plus on, and we are now living a life that is much closer to what we actually desire for ourselves. We do grown up things, like own large pieces of furniture, and fall asleep before midnight on a weekend, and try sipping brandy at the end of the night.

But still we hope to remain grateful, for the good things that we find in our lives. The small things that make us smile, and the big significant things that we strive for. So we're keeping a record. A Blogject.

You can find it here, at Gratis. It is already teeming with the tasty, and silly, the smiley and the serene. And I can't wait to find what else is on there!

Talking about my resolutions...

2012-01-11T05:12:00.000-08:00

There is something utterly comforting about ritual and tradition. I think that is why The Boy Factory clings on to it's many traditions so hard. Well, one of the reasons anyway.

In the last weeks of December and the early weeks of January, Gem and I start a discussion of The Resolutions. The plans and promises for 2012.

There are some people who don't make them, who see them as empty promises. They question why you don't just make the positive changes in your life as they occur to you. I might suggest that these people don't have much care for the ceremonial, the symbolic, the theatrical.

So The Rules. These are just for me. This is the way that I like to make my promises to myself. I have already harped on about it here, but just to recap:

1. 5 Resolutions. That way if I make 3 out of 5, I'm going well.
2. Quantifiable & measurable. If you can't definitively say "I did it" then it is not a completed resolution.
3. Achievable & realistic. I'm not going to lose 30 kilos. I'm not going to buy a house. But I just might get some of these done...

So here they are. Discussed ad nauseum. Brainstormed. Workshopped. Refined down to The Five.

1. New York, New York, New Years.
In order to get there, and have the blast that I will need to have there, there needs to be $200 saved, per week, until December.

2. Stand up on a surfboard
Next summer, I will be taking Year 9 to Victoria. And we will be going surfing. It will be the 4th time I will have tried surfing, and hopefully I will make it to standing up. I've stood once. And it was cool. And I want to do it again.

Holding me back is my fairly useless core. Core muscles that is. And those shoulders that seem to have unceremoniously shat themselves in the last 12 months. So in order to get the core and upper body strength, there will need to be some training. That Sweat Three Times A Week thing worked as a good guide for last year, and so long as I can keep my injuries and immune system on message, I think it should work again this year.

3. Live tidy, think tidy.
As a proper grown up, I think it is time for me to stop living in an unholy mess. I hope to refine my life a little bit, downsize the masses of crap that I try to keep in my home. But the promise to myself is 15 minutes of solid housework each day. That way, it is not an hour on my precious weekend. Or it is not just putting up with the clutter. So just a little bit of effort, my life should be easier and cleaner. Clean flat, clean mind! Well, tidy mind, anyway.

4. Write something for something else.
As much as I am LOVING writing this blog (and loving the fact that it appears about a dozen people are actually reading it!) I think I want to write something that goes somewhere else. I'm thinking about submitting a few pieces to some English and Drama teaching journals. It is something that my head teacher suggested a few months ago, saying I was "at about the stage of my career" where I should consider it. So the promise is not that I will get published, but that I will at least give it a crack.

5. Get grown up about finances.
This one is a bit multi-tiered, and very easy to measure. I've got to get on top of my tax. I've got to roll over all my super. I've got to start a Save For A House bank account. I've got to upgrade my car (I call him Henry. Sparky calls him The Death Trap). I've got to start putting some weight behind some people and organisations that need it more than me. Getting grown up about finances is what will happen in 2012.

So, as long as the Mayans were mistaken about the end of the world, this is the shape of 2012. Money, travel, fitness, organisation and career.

Sounds like fun!

Send in the Clooney

2011-12-30T21:52:00.000-08:00

Politics is a tricky thing. There is nothing more public than the process of democracy. It is in its very nature the centre of all things public and communal.

But the personal CANNOT be extracted from the political, because it is the people that run the politics.

Wow, Danne, way to start your first proper post in AGES in the driest most boring possible way ever! (Recent posts have sneakily been drafts lying in wait.)

I'm not really ashamed of it, but I am a bit of a politics nerd. I watch Q & A religiously. I take matters of society and power quite seriously. I don't necessarily think Julia Gillard is a particularly strong or reliable leader, but I do like some things that she does. Blowing up the pokies, for instance. And I am quite fanatically fond of The West Wing. In fact there lots of political films that I love. Wag The Dog. Primary Colours. V for Vendetta...

So The Ides of March. I think it wins for Movie Poster of the Year. (Is there a competition for that? There should be.) This is What George Clooney Did Next. I loved Good Night & Good Luck, it spoke to the lefty communist that hides inside me. I liked it in a Wow McCarthy Was A Total Fascist And Bush Isn't That Much Better kind of way. Clooney is a very handsome man, with an exceptional talent for seamless performances and comic timing, especially in the hands of my beloved Coen Bros (who seem to have gone all serious now...). I can't say at I have ever really fancied him in a PHWOAR! kind of fashion. And this is a very healthy thing. When he porked up a little and grew a beard for Syriana he kind of resembled my father. And the only thing more disturbing than watching a dude who looks like your dad getting his fingernails pulled out as a part of a torture scene is the possibility of fancying someone who resembles your father. Digress, much? I guess the point is, I think Clooney is cool and I like what he does.

And as such, I like Ides of March. This title comes from Shakespeare, another dude whose work I hold in high esteem. Julius Caesar in fact. Old Bill's tale of political assassination has links with the corruption and back room dealings of Ides but that is kind of where the similarities end. The lovely Alice Tynan thinks that this is a serious flaw in this film - it doesn't live up to the lofty heights of the title.

In the final stages of a fictional primary election in the US, Lefty governor Mike Morris (Clooney himself) is fighting for his spot on the presidential ballot. Ides follows the press secretary Stephen Myers (Gosling) feeling his way up the ladder of political behind the scenes. He is initially supported by the very intense mentor/campaign manager Paul (Phillip Seymour Hoffman - my goodness he is a phenomenal performer) and intern Molly (Evan Rachel Wood). The interpersonal relationships at the heart of the political machine play out between these characters, with Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti) weighing in as Paul's nemesis, and the dude behind The Other Guy's campaign.

Morris talks Big Ideas of Politics - foreign policy, defense, education, the environment and the car industry. Sometimes there is just a nuance that Clooney loaded this political flick with these speeches to give him a chance to express these ideas. While he harps on about the bug stuff, the petty conflicts of the personal shape how the debates are constructed. Because his opponent is short, in the first scene, Myers requests taller lecterns for a debate. The jealousies that drive party minds are rife. Ambition, lust, greed for power. Wrath, secrets and deceptions. Marisa Tomei's New York Times journo is affably manipulative.

This film reminds us that it is people tat are behind politics, and that is why the systems are so flawed. Communism works, in theory, but is brought crashing down by the inevitability of human corruption and greed. The free market democracy is also open to this serious human flaw.

The corollary of this is that not only is it the personal that drives the political machine, but the politics profoundly impacts the lives of the individuals. Who they shag, what they drive, where they work, how they deal with scandal. These decisions are of course our own, but they are sparked or at lest influenced by people in suits in closed rooms with fluro lighting.

While some might say this film has lessons to teach about integrity and honesty, I believe it is about how important it is to ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE!! Each twist, each turn, each disaster, at a micro or macro level, could be avoided if the character who OWNED the phone just answered it when they were called. Not too much to ask?

There is a touch of The West Wing to this movie. The behind the scenes of politics context will make comparisons unavoidable. I really think George was aiming for a Sorkin-esque snappy dialogue kind of movie, and I don't think he quite nailed it. But the sense of homage is certainly there. Unfortunately, my beloved Josh Lyman and CJ Craig are not. But that is what DVDs are for.

I really enjoyed this film. It is certainly allow burner, and definitely not Sparky's cup of tea, but for a family Boxing Day flick, it was perfect. Raising questions, getting us talking. If we had have gone in expecting the pomp of Shakespeare, the snap of Sorkin or the usual fireworks of a Boxing Day Blockbuster, I fear we would have been disappointed. But we weren't. Happy family viewing. For the slightly politically geeky family.

Resolution Round Up 2011

2011-12-28T21:17:00.000-08:00

2011 had a great deal riding on it. There were many plans made. Promises too. So, let's check in.

1. Shoes
Hmmm. I think I get a partial on this. I DID buy new shoes towards the end of the year. They were all to replace ones that had died. But e key reason for me not buying new ones was to save money to go to Europe. And I did not buy any before Europe. So do I get that one as a win? Maybe a half...

2. 52 blog posts.
I'm nearly there! There may be a binge in the next few days. There may be some posts up that have say half written like a forgotten pot plant for months in the wasteland of my drafts box that miraculously get to see the light of the computer screen once more! This post is number 45 by my meager calculations. And so 52 in the next 2 days is not inconceivable. I admit that there are times when I am more prolific than others. Holidays for example. And indeed any time outside of Report Season. But the aim was to AVERAGE one a week, and I think I am nearly there!

3. Sweat
It wasn't quite every week. But playing soccer, getting to one body balance class and a decent walk every week was almost achieved. Must try harder in 2012 for greater consistency. Oops, just sounded like a I was writing my own report card...

4. Spots
Got 'ema checked. Got the OK. TICK

5. $100 per week
Did it. Until Europe. Which was the point. But it was also only half way through the year...

Am still formulating my 2012 plans...

And the books?

The Road is still unread.
Hound of the Baskervilles is not done. And I don't think I'll get it knocked over in the next little while. Not with all the blogposts I have to write!
Breath TICK!
Antigone TICK!
The wasp factory For shame I have not.
A Monster Calls Not yet. But in my defense it has been significantly difficult to get a hold of. I did buy myself one, but then gave it to my brother as a Christmas gift, without having read it.

So not awesome on the reading front. Again, plans are yet to be made for 2012.

SCORES:
2/5 for the Real ones.and a chance I might pull through the final days for a 3
2/6 for the reading.

Turkey

2011-12-28T20:54:00.000-08:00

Seeing as I didn't liveblog or tweet my Turkish Trip in realtime, things are now a little hazy. A school excursion (cough-only-6-kids-the-rest-were-parents-or-kids-from-another-school-cough) that toured sites of Ancient and Modern History, starting in Istanbul.

So rather than attempt to recreate the narrative of the visit, I thought I might go Dot Point With Pictures.

Day 1.

River Cruise.

War Museum.

Stuck in mega traffic jam because some doofus abandoned his Beemer on a roundabout outside Louis Vitton.

Baklava to die for.

Took students on a walk. Got mega lost. At sunset. In one of the most chaotic cities in the world. Tried not to panic. Good cure for jetlag.

Day 2.
Eggs & Feta for breakfast.

Topkapi Palace.

Spice Bazaar.

Turkish coffee = Tru Love 4 Eva

Awkward Hammam (Turkish Bath) and Massage. Possibly scarred for life.

Day 3.
Blue Mosque. Wow.

Hagia Sofia.

Grand Bazaar. Made up for being lost on the streets by navigating crazy maze of 4000+ shops.

Basilica Aquaduct.

Day 4.
Gallipoli.

Sunset over the Dardenelles.

Day 5.

Troy.

Pergamom. Theatre as therapy? Sounds perfect to me!

Day 6.

Temple of Apollo.

Ancient Theatres.

Day 7.

Ephasus.

Re-Wrote and Performed extract from Antigone in the Great Theatre. A highlight of trip, and possibly of life.

Next stop: Belgium.

Real men of Oz Rock

2011-12-28T20:53:00.000-08:00

The highlight of the musical calendar in West Bubblefuck this year (apart from the Both Kinds Of Music Festival) has been Bogan Mecca - a Chisel reunion tour. There has been much excitement about the return of Barnsey, Mossy and Walker. The inevitable rendition of all the hits played in almost exactly the same way as they appear on the album, except for the carving Ian Moss solo has had the rednecks in a tizzy.

Don't get me wrong, I don't hate Chisel. They have some BRILLIANT music, Walker has written some lyrics that carve a deep scar into the Australian psyche, telling some stories that capture and articulate our vague definition of culture in this country. But the Fans of Chisel kind of irk me. Much like how the fans of Midnight Oil will belt out the lyrics to "Beds Are Burning" with gusto, but chuck around racist slurs with similar gay abandon. Similarly, the thuggish Barneseque Seem not to care about the anti-war, anti-suburban lyrics of the songs that criticize the way they live.

My personal highlight of the evening was not watching Jimmy sweat it out on stage, or even seeing the beautiful digital art on the backdrop.

Having Rock Legend, and Musical Hero Tim Rodgers in my town made me so freaking happy. I don't care what the bogans and haters-of-the-support-band say, Timmy and the You Am I boys slayed that stage, on a Tuesday night. It was stunning.

Smells Like Victory

2011-11-12T16:05:00.000-08:00

All families have traditions. Those rituals to marks the milestones or merely the passing of time. And our family is big on rituals. We're big on a lot of things really. Mostly, we're just big. Like Nana used to say "Rats don't have mice" (Surely Nana could have had another quip that didn't so heavily involve my two biggest phobias???!)

Some of our rituals are big. We do Christmas like a boss, on both sides of my extended family. Meats, fruits, salads, desserts. Booze. New and ingenious ways to give gifts without breaking banks or collecting masses of plastic tat.

We do 21sts with gusto. There are many golden anecdotes of 21st tales. Mystery vomiters. Ugly sweaters. Shocking speeches. Drunk uncles who refuse to let flat mates into family photos (when really. He just wanted to go past to get to the loo).

Our weddings are stylish, our birthdays are feasts. But what I really love are the little ones.

Monday night is usually Fam Din (because we're just too lazy for all the syllables of Family Dinner). A chance for all the family who are in town to eat together.

But I think I like Saturday mornings the best. Coffee, and sometimes eggs, with a copy of the Sydney Morning Herals, bumper Saturday edition. More specifically The Good Weekend section. And The Quiz.

Trivial information seems to stick in my brain. Perhaps it is the allure of knowing something that not many people do. Perhaps it is that narssicistic joy of being right. Perhaps at collective junk of my brain just needs to have some kind of outlet. But trivial pursuits make me happy. When I lived in the Big Smoke, there was no mid week engagement more important or cemented into the diary than the pub quiz with my team, The Paddock Darts & Something Topical/Amusing Club.

Trivia teams require a delicate balance. A mixture of the extroverted and the introverted. Those willing to scribe, and those willing to whisper. Those keen to battle for their answers, and those happy to compromise, and then try not to shout "I TOLD YOU SO!" when the answers are announced. But even more importantly, there needs to be a balance of knowledge and interest. I like the music questions best. All the pop culture ones. Movies, TV, celebrity gossip. I also like the wordy ones - a word that can go before -jack, -box, -ban and -berry to make a new word? They are my favorites. But I am totally shithouse on geography. Mediocre on history. Sub par on fashion and architechture. Pretty rubbish on sport. (*there's too much sport*) But if you can build a team with the right balance, then your team will know no boundaries.

My family team is pretty well balanced. Dad covers off sport and geography like a champ. Mum is a history buff. Yes there are holes in our knowledge, but sometimes our brains trust for that week will fill them in. One brother does medicine, the other does psych and art (and does music a damn sight better than me). Usually we get about 11/15. Some weeks are worse. If we're less than 9, we're not happy with ourselves. If we're over 12, then we're pretty smug.

And we have said for a few years now that if we ever got full marks, we would take ourselves out to dinner.

Last weekend, we nailed it.

Dad rang me with 4 questions unknown. An Oscars one, a TV one, a comedy one and a celebrity one.

Smacked it out of the park.

That night we went to dinner at The Ritz. Tapas and tarts. And it tasted good. And it smelled like victory.

You can do the quiz in The Good Weekend magazine with the Saturday Sydney Morning Herald. Or you can do it on the smh app like I'm going to do right now!

2011-10-29T19:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes teaching isn't just about imparting knowledge and babysitting.

As a year coordinator at The Boy Factory, and also as a human being, sometimes you field lots of hard questions. Mental health. Relationship problems. Social awkwardness.

There are people that say that High School Is The Best Years Of Your Life. I feel pity for those people. Because if those years of uncertainty and horror and confusion and being in a perpetual state of judgement are the best in their lives, then I am thinking they never had the unbridled hedonism of university, the enormous self satisfaction that directing a play can give, the excitement, adventures and break from reality that happens in overseas travel...

School can be shit.

And this week I have found two things that I can use to help me understand/remember.

Triple J has bounded into the trend of the It Gets Better movement:

And Allie at Hyberbole and a Half has created a beautiful and haunting exploration of her own battle with depression: Adventure in Depression

All people have the bad times. Even, no wait, scratch that, especially kids.

White Coke

2011-10-29T19:07:00.000-07:00

I'm not talking about illicit narcotics here.
Advertising and spin have a strange effect on me. I'm simultaneously intrigued and disgusted. Companies spending mega bucks on continuing to increase their ever swelling massive profit margins, the consumer being hoodwinked into handing over their hard earned, simple truths ignored for gimmicky tricks. All of which play into some seriously vague and unattainable vision of what We ( as humans, Australians, women/men etc) are SUPPOSED to be.

And I say this as a reformed advertiser myself.

I left the ad world for teaching, and have never regretted it. I loved the people I worked with, especially those that loved their job, but I thought it was a sad indictment on the society we live in that the most creative minds we have, the most talented artists, writers, photographers, use their talents to persuade people to buy shit they don't need. Instead of just art for art's sake.

Ah, crap. I really don't mean to sound like Judgy McJudge. This really isn't what this rant was MEANT to be about.

Advertising HAS brought some more golden gems into my life - as well as my pals from the agency lunch table. Gruen. 30 Seconds. Mad Men (HOLY CRAP!! Just realised I have written NOTHING on Mad Men!!! How is this possible??!?!). This Old Spice ad.

I try to remember some of these good things when I get a boiling ad rant going...

But...

Have you seen these?

All these photos via Coca Cola Australia's FB page

As if the whole thing wasn't pissing me off enough already, some clown needs to bring the toxicity of Twilight into the equation

Notice anything?

Where is the representation of multicultural Australia? Where is Phu? Karma? Tamieka? Wallid? Teik Kim? At what point did the Brand Manager of Coke say "Yep. Our market here in Australia is all whitey white. Let's make them feel special about that."

And OK, my sample is not wide here. The bottles stocked in the West Bubblefuck servo may well be especially selected for our arch- Anglo demographic. Yes you CAN order your own custom bottle or can from the FB page, but they have to make choices about the ones they send to the supermarket shelves, right? Perhaps they corner shops in Cabbramatta and Lygon St are more reflective of the rich depth of cultures that we have in this country.

But I'm thinking not.

Grid Iron Addiction

2011-10-27T05:51:00.000-07:00

So by now we all know of my weakness for trashy teenage dramas. (Of the television kind - I'm not in the least bit interested in the soap operas of the small people of The Boy Factory.) But my track record of being smitten with trashy TV is pretty well recorded. Gossip Girl. The OC. Glee. One Tree Hill. These are the machinations of the microcosms of society, through the lens of those burgeoning humans about to burst through the threshold into the world.

Or maybe that is over thinking it.

My latest true TV love is Friday Night Lights. I'd heard Good Things. From the kind of people who share a similar taste in glittering trashy tv as me.

And Good Things it is.

Even if you don't care for Grid Iron (and I really don't. I mean, what kind of a game takes so many hours to play, for so little game time? What kind of game has a separate offensive and defensive sects of the team?! What kind of a contact sport requires THAT much padding and headgear??!?) this show is LOTS of Good Things.

The titular lights of the Friday evening refer to the floodlights of the Panthers football stadium in the small football obsessed Texas town of Dillon. A small town school that is uber obsessed by football? Has the Boy Factory been transplanted to the US? I swear some of my life has been transformed to Texan teleplay somehow.

The story lines really resonate. Staff politics of a school. The Jocks and their privileged role in the school. Budgeting and the prioritising of sport over all else (one sport in particular.) Small town gossip mills. Those awkward mother-daughter sex conversations. This show is so well written, it stings a little bit.

The whole style of the show is pretty gritty. The breathtaking performances from the cast are largely improvised, one take with 3 cameras. It makes all the character interactions uber realistic. Talking over the top of each other, interrupting each other, the kind of pregnant pauses that pepper real life conversations. The camera operators chase the actors, rather than the actors finding their mark and delivering to camera. This all gives a real doco style to the show. Framings are usually skewed, focus is loose and the grainy stock gives a hint of the voyuer. There is a comfort in the score. Snuffy Walden's theme song drums somewhere between The West Wing & Studio 60.

And given that I have knocked over 3 seasons in 5 days (being knocked flat by stabbing sinus pain can sometimes result in Good Things), I am somewhat bewildered that I hadn't sunk myself into the brilliance before. Just watching the performances, and the characters is like wrapping yourself in a doona on my pride and joy comfy couch.

The central character, Coach Eric Taylor, is that kind of gallant, proud and hospitable Texas man that my US travelled friends tell me is a real thing. Kyle Chandler who plays him shows a parade of hidden emotions. He's come a long way since Early Edition... His wife Tami (Connie Britton) has THE BEST HAIR ON TELEVISION. I am suffering from some serious hair envy. I'm also pretty jealous of the way she has with students. As counsellor, she always knows the right things to say, the right comforting or motivating words- the kind that I am always looking for in my daily life. Jason Street & Lyla Garrity (Scott Porter & Minka Kelly) start out as the picture perfect quarterback/cheerleader couple. He is charming and chiseled. She is cute as a button, and is almost certain to play Rose Byrne's sister one day. But I do hope she is kicking herself for being involved in the horrid tv remake of Charlie's Angels (What? Axed already? Colour me shocked!)

But the character I am truly besotted with, the dude that just might have made it into my favorite TV characters ever (hmm, there is an idea for a post...!) is Tim Riggins. I can't even really think of him as a real person actor type human Taylor Kitsch. This dude is like the white trash seven dwarves all rolled into one being. Broody, Pouty, Boozy, Punchy, Sexy, Smirky and Occasionally Deep. Ridiculously good looking. Brilliant hair. A smile that could calm me down in the middle of 5th period Year 9. He is an utterly watchable rogue.

Phwoar!!!!

At first I felt a little bit icky about being so pervy on a teenage character, given my daily dealings at The Boy Factory. But then I remembered that he wouldn't have been PLAYED by a smelly teenage boy - and it turns out he is only a year younger than me! (Thanks imdb.com for being so fantastic at alleviating Dragon 'Are You Old Enough' style guilt!!) And then I realised that he actually looks a great deal like my very own teenage pouty crush, River Phoenix. And then I realised that he played Gambit in X-Men: First Class - my third favourite character EVER from the cartoons. Now I think I might very well hold my breath until they make an X-Men film focused entirely on Gambit. With Riggins back in the role.
Having my own life mirrored in Texan drawl is surreal and arresting. This show might sneak about like trashy teen drama, but it is gutsy and funny and highly addictive.

Post Scripts:
So after I wrote this entry, I have found/figured out some other bits of info...
The acronym FNL is an anagram of NFL!! Too word nerdy? Oh. Sorry.
ABC2 (for Aussie readers) is playing FNL on Friday nights!!! Fitting, yes??

Blow up the Pokies

2011-10-27T05:06:00.000-07:00

I hate poker machines.

I have nothing against local clubs and pubs. I have no grudge against local sporting teams and charities reaping benefits from those organisations. I don't mind if individuals choose to pump their hard earned into the belly of the one armed bandits.

But poker machines make me Oh So Cranky.

On a purely rational level, EVERYBODY KNOWS that the House Always Wins. EVERYBODY KNOWS that pubs and clubs don't put those sparkly tinkly machines in just to GIVE money away to patrons. We KNOW that there are algorithms and computer equations that ensure a teeny tiny percentage is paid out hill the rest goes into profit.

But when fueled with the power of a few frosty sherbets, a punter is powered by Possibiliy. It COULD pay out big. And it COULD be me.

But chances are, it won't be.

Xenaphon, Wilkie and Gillard have come up with a plan to help problem gamblers. I'm not sure I 100% understand what it is. Something about a compulsory precommitment to new machines that require a registered card to keep a track of who puts what in? Clubs Australia says it won't solve the problem, but it will hurt the clubs. Which makes as much sense as when the retailers said plain packaging won't stop sales of cigarettes but will send corner stores broke. You cannot hold two diametrically opposite points as true. Unless you are a hormonal female in need of TLC...

Ray Warren accidentally gave an ad-that-as-not-a-political-ad during the Manly Broncos semi final. And Nick Xenaphon is baying for some political blood. Clubs Australia has gone a little bit nuts here in West Bubblefuck, with Our Tony such a kingmaker down there. Bowling clubs, rugby clubs, all freaking out that they will go under without the coin from the Pokies.

GetUp, the lefty More Lower Case liberal Than Labor activist group aired their own ad, depicting pokies as taking the money straight from the punters at the ATM.

What not one person or interest group has mentioned here is that, unlike a game of poker, or a race of horses, pokies are the product of research. Addictive Behaviour research. Computers that are programmed to Keep you coming back! To keep you pumping your hard earned in. Rational, logical, intelligent humans who know all of those universal truths that I mentioned earlier are fully aware that they will not get their money back. But these computers, just like nicotine, just like my beloved caffeine, just like crystal meth, are addictive. And designed to be so.

And this doesn't even mention how toxic they have been to live music in Australia...

I don't know if a nanny state ID card system is the way to go. But I do think that these toxic machines should all be unplugged. Right now. Destroyed.

I'm with Tim Freedman on this.

Childhood Home. Or My Life as a Belonging Text Part II

2011-09-28T23:50:00.000-07:00

The first home I can remember was in Manly. Well, Fairlight to be more precise. And returning to it today was a true assault to the memory. The Corso smells the same. The Esplanade has the same wind whipped sensation. The bus stop mirrors the past perfectly, I could almost see my friends huddled in wait for a late night bus, after we had played a sweaty, smoky game of laser tag, and eaten our own body weight in Royal Copenhagen ice-cream.

And to make matters even more comfortable, the whole place is draped in maroon and white, anticipating a great Sea Eagles victory on Grand Final Day this Sunday. I spend a fair bit of my life at The Boy Factory, and in various watering holes across QLD & NSW defending my love of the Manly Warringah Sea Eagles. There are not many of us out there that are true believers in the Silver Tails. As HG Nelson said "Everybody hates Manly. Except a few people who grew up in the Brookvale area."

But I love them. And most of the people I went to school with love them too.

My first proper boyfriend busted out the smooth moves at Brookvale Oval. Or perhaps I played the damsel-in-distress My Hands Are Cold card... Anyway, we ended up holding hands. I didn't mind much that Cronulla beat us that night. I was too busy swooning.

Brookvale Oval was a very great place for a date in the following years. Cheap, seeing as Dad snuck me a $4 entry players card from when he was coaching the school team. And demonstrating me to be the kind of chick that likes football, that isn't afraid to sit on a hill, that doesn't need the cliche girly treatment.

I understand the hatred from the other clubs. I understand the perception of the Silvertails from the fancypants Northern Beaches, in the working class game of Rugby League. Incidentally, the docoThe Fibros and The Silvertails is a brilliant film for looking at sports, journalism and identity with junior students. Works wonders with Year 8. But I digress...

Last night, my friend Jase used my love of Manly as a kickstarter for conversation at the pub. The aghast looks I received I found laughable. I was with a hard core St George supporter, a Souths player and a Queenslander. Not much support for Sea Eagles there.

So after swanning about with the lahdidah set in the city's east, I now feel a little more at home. Seeing palm trees wound with my team colours, and the wings of a spread eagle snapping on flags atop awnings and car rooves is comforting beyond belief.

How my life just might be a Belonging text

2011-09-27T17:45:00.000-07:00

Term 3 is notoriously hectic. Near hellish, really. Shunting Yr12 out the gates in a fitting celebration, with minimal casualties. Cranking Yr11 up into their HSC year. Trialling Yr10 in the last school certain ever. Mania is a word that begins to cover it.

So now I have escaped West Bubblefuck to the increasingly unfamiliar sites of The Big Smoke. Considering I grew up here, moved back here and lived here for most of my adult life, I am somewhat surprised by how much of a tourist I am here now. The fact that I am staying in the uber-alienating leafy Woollhara, with the Yummy Mummy set and gentlemen who punctuate their sentences with "dahling" and the sound of them kissing their own teeth... Is is any wonder I am feeling a tad of an Outsider??

In West Bubblefuck, I think the Locals tend to consider ME out there. Latte sipping (even though my addiction is soley The Flat White), lefty, trendy tshirt wearing, artsy and a bit too opinionated for a chick. The fact that I refer to my "home"town as West Bubblefuck may indeed suggest that I feel like I am living somewhere not as progressive as I might like. But here I am not ENOUGH of a lefty/fashionista/trendy/out there human.

I'm sure it's just the hipster suburbs I've been floating in. Woollhara. Paddington. Surry Hills. This afternoon will be Bondi Beach. Maybe I should stop being such a posuer.

Or maybe I just need some more sleep.

Gun powder meets lasers

2011-08-29T02:20:00.000-07:00

I quite like a good po-mo mash up of genres. Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz for example. Gotta love a Rom-Zom-Com or a Slasher-Cop flick.

And the combination of Western & Sci-Fi has worked before - Joss Whedon's uber-brilliant-and-tragically-short-lived Firefly is a perfect case for this.

But I can't say I've ever been the hugest fan of the Western genre. Deadwood was entertaining, but I only saw a couple of episodes with Irish, and I haven't touched on it since. It seems incredibly blokey to me - battling the frontier, men against the elements, men against each other. There is also an inherent racism in Westerns. Them damn Injuns! The Native Americans and Mexicans are so far removed from mainstream, their otherness screams loud and clear in their sullen facial expressions and lack of brimmed hats. And as for women? Whores and virgins abound, except for a few hard-as-nails she-males, leathered and weathered from that same battle against the land. There also seems to be this overarching obsession with the father-son relationship... Doing daddy proud or some such macho nonsense.

The third installment of Back to the Future was always my least favourite.

I guess that formula has always just... bored me. It is the kind of films my grandfather watched. Long silences that I suppose are meant to build tension. Grubby faces and squinty eyes - oh won't someone give that man a pair of shades?

But still, with Jon Favreau at the helm, the icon of Harrison Ford, the hotness of Daniel "Mr Pout" Craig and Olivia "Turquoise Eyes" Wilde, how could I resist a little bit of excitement about Cowboys & Aliens?

What have I said about expectation management?

Like all westerns, this one starts off slow. We have stage coach robberies, and shoot outs on dusty streets. An amnesiac protagonist always helps in the exposition of information, because they can hide behind the idea that the character learns as we do. And Daniel Craig makes amnesia look pretty darn attractive. Plus there is the added mystery of that weird angular manacle...?

Hey Harrison! How cool is my Indiano Jones outfit?!

Anyway, it starts off slow. And there are a few brief moments of action, mostly when the aliens attack, and steal away the townsfolk. Lasers, and retracting chains, and exploding buildings. And flight craft that resemble beetles. But that's about it for pace. Key feature of the Western: move SLOW.

So the Wild West has been taken over by the hungry-for-gold space crabs. Closely resembling the "Prawns" from District 9, the invading forces take that idea of Vagina Dentata to a whole other level. In fact, the phallic and vaginal imagery goes a little bit bonkers in this genre mash up. And it's possible I am viewing in through my own post-feminist lenses, but it all just got a bit too much for me. The huge phallic spaceship. The guns, and pulsing hot rod weapons. The protruding digits from mucusy, triangular fleshy caverns.... This is not just me, is it?

I think the point they were trying to get at is that money ruins us all. Corruption and power and violence and green are all inextricably linked. When you get the money, you lose perspective of the important things. Like the love of your wife, the respect of your community, the motivation to be a good man (because really, it's all about the men in the Wild West!) and the decency to other living things. Aliens want gold, and they're happy to destroy everyone in their path to get it. Which is not a huge stretch from Daniel Craig's Jake (before he went all forgetty) and Harrison Ford's Dolarhyde (pron: Dollar Hide. Man who runs cattle for a living... Really?) before their purposes were united by a common alien enemy. So yeah, I get the point of the film. I see the moral, through all the glowing blue lasers exploding green blood.

Doesn't mean I have to like it though.

Cowboys & Aliens didn't really arrest me. I don't think there is quite enough sci-fi in it for the geekiest of us, but if you're into the dusty westerns, it may work for you

Teacher Geek

2011-08-27T03:35:00.000-07:00

This arvo I have been totally Teacher Geeking out. Trawling twitter for teachers to follow. Discovering blogs. Finding resources. Signing up to edmodo.com.

And rediscovering Wordle!!

Here is my current Wordle for The Mixed Metaphor!! I wonder what it will look like in a year's time? A month? A week?

The Strangest of Choices

2011-08-27T00:27:00.000-07:00

Who'd be an English teacher?

When Trial time comes around, Year 12 kiddies freak out a little (if they give a crap) about a simulation of the HSC experience.
And some teachers bauk at the amount of work that involves for us. Set the exam, copy the exam, check the exam, supervise, collect... and MARK.

There is a certain amount of envy I have for elective teachers. Art has 10 students. Geography has 5. Granted, those teachers need to mark all sections of that one paper.

I still have fifteen essays to go.
In 2 weeks I have marked 95 essays.
A total of 110.
There is only so many times you can write You have some interesting observations of the text here, but you need to work on your essay structure. Greater focus is required on techniques and how meaning is created. Always ensure you include a direct quote from the text to support your ideas.

HSC students, let that piece of information be a guide to all essays you write for English. I may well just get it tatooed on my arm. Nah, probably not, it is permanently etched on my brain as it is.

Sell Sell Sell!!!!

2011-08-16T15:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, as Mother to 110, you spend vast chunks of the day talking to teachers, counsellors, executive staff and SAS about students. Some days it is one specific student. How you can get him to break a pattern of behaviour, how you can get him to build some positive feedback and positive experiences in his life. Some days there are so many emotional coins invested in someone that when that individual (and sometimes you need to be reminded that he is just a child) tries very hard to push you away, to openly and publically disrespect you, to demonstrate that he is "doing alright" on his own... It smites a fair bit.

Last night felt a little bit like an Emotional GFC. My wise and very experienced mother told me when I started teaching that she has seen a pattern of female teachers taking the experiences of teaching far more personally than the male members of staff.

And I KNOW it is not personal. I KNOW it is written into the job description that a 14 year old boy must be emotionally stunted, must challenge authority and push boundaries. But in a vulnerable moment, I was exposed.

This morning it feels quite difficult to get back into the middle of that educational and emotional stock exchange. If I could just store all my emotional banknotes under my mattress, and take only apathy into the work place, there are times when I would.

Greening out

2011-08-13T22:25:00.000-07:00

I don't usually get political on this site.

I did once, and it turned out to be my most popular post ever. Which is getting WAY more hits now than it ever did. Not that it is the meaty, political contents of my Q&A loving brain. If you didn't read it, I am basically comparing Tony Abbot (Or Mr Rabbit as careless/amused journos are liable to call him) to Bert of Bert & Ernie fame. Yeah, not the biteyest of satire, or the most profound of observations.

And the reasons I don't rant politics much is because of my job. Being an English teacher, we are often painted as radical lefties trying to brainwash the younger generations into joining our unions, saving our planet, and closing the gap between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people in this country. I know. We're outrageous. Just ask Miranda Devine. (Her going back to the Daily Tele has totally reduced my paper-reading anger levels...)

But I have to be very careful NOT to try to saturate my students with the contents of my own brain. I need to teach them HOW to think, not WHAT to think.

But.

(There is always a But.)

Today I went to a "rally" that was "organised" by Get-Up, the lefty-left-left-left advocacy group who want things like basic human rights, equal rights for genders and sexual preferences, a sustainable future for our country and planet, and other unreasonable demands. This "rally" was a Say Yes To Carbon Pricing, an attempt to show support for the "tax" and generally try to indicate that here in West Bubblefuck, we are not actually a bunch of red-neck bible bashers who want to mine and pollute to our hearts content.

Except it seems we are.

I reckon there were only about 60 people there. Granted, I am pretty rubbish at estimating numbers, so there might have been anywhere from 50-100, but to my dodgy eye, it looked a bit like 2 classes worth of greying hippies. But it was a pretty insignificant number, in this city of about 50,000 that we live in. Hence the sarcasmo "inverted commas" when I mention the term "rally."

Here in West Bubblefuck, our local member is Tony Windsor, one of the most powerful men in the country, holding the balance of power in his brown, leathery farmer hands. He was a National Party Member, until they screwed him and his seat over a few too many times, and he went Independent.

And while he is not a hard core, global warming advocate, he holds the belief that most people do. If the actions of humans are in any way impacting the climate of our globe, then we should change our behaviour. And if there is a chance that our actions are NOT affecting the climate, then what have we got to lose by NOT pumping pollution into the air/water/ground?

This is what irks me about climate change Deniers. (Which does include some of my nearest and dearest. And most of my students.) Approximately 97% of SCIENTISTS believe that humans are changing the climate of the earth. But Deniers have read something that someone said about people not having any impact on the climate of this planet, and because it was more safe and comfortable and status quo, they chose to believe THAT person.

Not the economists. Not the experts. Not the resounding majority of the scientific community. But the person with the vested interest in mining/coal burning/deforestation.

So when 3 of these 60 people started ARGUING with the speakers at this "rally" I realised that not all of these 60 people were believers, some of them were shit stirrers who wanted to pick a fight. Yes, shouty man next to me, it is a PROVEN SCIENTIFIC FACT that Australia is the BIGGEST polluter per capita. Lots of space/mines/machines/cars? Not many people? BINGO!! Yes, China DOES pollute more than us. But here is the thing about the phrase "per capita" - it means per head of population? And yes, we make more than them in that particular ratio...

And I also know that the term "carbon" is all wrong, especially when discussing emissions and taxes etc. What with us being carbon based life forms. And carbon being a kind of essential thing for us all to get by. But they had to pick an element to fixate on, and some of the others already have too many connotations. And the fact is that listing all the pollutants on the name of the tax is just not feasible.

The Daily Tele/my students/my BF/my aunt/my mother's aunts/talk back radio hosts and listeners may all believe that Ms Gillard is charging us "another big tax" but I hope nobody crumbles. I hope Mr Windsor realises that there are more than 60 people in his electorate who believe in him. Put the price on. Pay the $10 a week. Get the rebates back. Let the government put some more money into research of power sources that don't involve pumping toxins into everything.

How about we stop treating the planet like we, in this generation, in this century, in this species, in this country, in this economic climate.... like we are not the be all and end all of this planet.

Galactic Green Peacekeepers

2011-08-13T05:11:00.000-07:00

My love affair with Hollywood's love affair with comic book movie adaptations continues. They keep pumping them out, and I am that audience member that keeps flocking to see them. (Can a single person flock?)

I do try to avoid seeing and hearing reviews BEFORE the film comes out (which makes watching David & Margaret a little tricky!) but I managed to catch some of the reviews for The Green Lantern by osmosis. SMH Film blogger gileshardie said on twitter:

"THE GREEN LANTERN. Ummm. Yeah. If you like films. Or if you like yourself. Just don't see it. More flaw than film."

Both Margaret AND David saw flaws in the film, but gave it 3.5 and 3 respectively.

And I could see where they are coming from.

The vast tracts of backstory voice over in the start of the film, if they happened to be the opening paragraph on a Year 10 Short Story assignment (because that might give you an insight into where my life is this week!) I would have scrawled in the-not-as-demoralising-as-red blue marking pen something along the lines of "Start with ACTION. SHOW, don't TELL" - so NOT the most engaging of opening scenes.

The premise is all about a superarmy of fearless green suited warriors from around the universe who use the power of Will, and are charged with a mission to fight Evil. And the grandaddy of Evil is Fear, the only force in the universe more powerful than Will.

So... Complex scifi alterno-reality to create, and a voice over backstory is prob the only way to do it with any kind of brevity... But I still reckon they could have woven it into the story, so we could have found out when Hal found out.

Hal.

Ryan Reynolds.

Most certainly NOT a flaw of the film. Very much flawless. And spends a fair whack of the film flaunting his flawless figure. Sigh!

He is utterly convincing as an irresponsible, impulsive, emotionally retarded manchild. I know some of them, so I find them easy to recognise.

And Blake Lively is near perfect as the female interest, Carol Ferris. Mostly she is not a totally insipid damsel in distress, but there are moments when we lapse into those comic book stereotypes. She is, as she and all female counterparts in comic book movies are meant to be, smoking hot. There are some shots of her that I imagined could have come directly from the original DC pages - the framing, the perfecting drawn hair, the unrealistically red lips... Comic book perfection in a way that can only be drawn. Kind of reminds me of Jessica Rabbit...

For a change, the chemistry between Reynolds and Lively is pretty... lively (sorry, that was terrible, even by my standards...) and starts off pretty sparky from the get-go.

And in keeping with comic book traditions there is the Compulsory Alliterative Character. In this case, the evil fear minion, Hector Hammond. Part elephant man, part Fear's magic wand, the very attractive Peter Sarsgaard does a pretty good job uglied up. Scrubs down alright.

The special effects are phenomenal. Sparky & I heartily agree that 3D films are nauseating, distracting and do little for the cinema experience. So we managed to catch a 2D screening. And while I know that if I saw it in 3D, I would have left with a headache, nausea and a general feeling of malaise, I actually think there is a possibility they could have done some good things with that tech this time. The Big Bad Fear Monster, part dragon, part octopus, would have been incredible launching out of the screen. The asteroid belt, and the Lanterns' translucent green weapons of Will (ie whatever they imagine) and all the flight scenes had the potential to make 3D work quite effectively. Of course, you will have to see that for yourself. Because I won't be doing it for you.

AFTER the tedious intro, the early scenes are snappy. And being Ryan Reynolds, hilarious. They have pace and characterisation and interest, which is tricky for a Meet The Characters on what I'm sure the producers hope will be a franchise. We see Hal selected to join the Feds of the Universe. That transition from irresponsible to dutiful is highly entertaining. Once the action starts, however, things get a little more predictable, with the set pieces and raised stakes. Hal becomes less unpredictable and spontaneous, and much more... boring superhero-y.

I once read an article (and do you THINK I can find it??) that said that superheroes are by their very nature boring and reactive. Their day to day life of tedium is only challenged when a more interesting supervillain comes along with big plans to shake things up and take things over. And after we meet Hal and learn about what he can now do now, he joins the boring ranks of the Dean Cain/Christopher Reeve era Superman, or a Val Kilmer/George Clooney style Bruce Wayne (Michael Keaton has too much sarcasm, and Christian Bale is WAY too dark to be Captain Goody Goody).

Lantern is about a bajillion times better than Captain A-MEH-rica.

Kick arse action, totally unrealistic scifi goodness.

Things That Shit Me About Captain America

2011-08-05T20:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, comic book films are not meant to be High Art. Yes, they are generally the schlock that Hollywood rolls out to bring in some guaranteed coin. Yes, the scripts are usually fill-in-the-blanks, predictable drivel to tie together the action packed set pieces.

But I love them.

Usually.

Captain A-Meh-rica however, kind of gave me the shits.

Here's why:

1. The "Yay" America Attitude.
Yes, I was prepared for it. I mean, it IS in the title after all. But I wasn't prepared enough to not let it shit me. And yes, there are a few token characters from other countries, flung against the Nazis and their suped up uber-scientists. But they are pretty tokenistic.

2. The Historical Inaccuracies
I'm not really a stickler for History. Making things entirely Realistic or True is not necessarily what I am all about. I LOVED Inglourious Basterds. Fantasy & SciFi stuff makes me happy. The X-Men franchise is totaly not plausible, but I have so much love for it. And I have no problem with scientific divisions of the military creating super soldiers with serums and rocks that wield the power of the Gods.
But I have great issues with the portrayal of women at the front line of WWII.
Peggy Carter (Hayley Atwell) is smoking hot. 1940s lips and hair to die for. Pencil skirts that make me wish I had hips like that. Great dialogue, and a kick arse attitude. And I could almost believe that she was an intelligence agent. I could almost believe she was working behind the scenes to bring about the downfall of the Nazis. But it really shat me when she was firing off a machine gun in the advancing line, next to commanding officer Tommy Lee Jones with other soldiers dissolving into blue sparks beside her. Completely naff and disrupting.

3. Derivative to a point of vomitous

I realise in this post-modern context we all live in that nothing is original any more. Every new piece of art (did you know comic-book films are art?) comes from somewhere else. Another Marvel film is always going to be saturated with enough intertextuality to sink a MAD Magazine, especially when it is set to be part of a whole series of Avengers films. So I am aware that OF COURSE this film was never going to be a stand alone piece.

But I think they took it too far.

When making an alterno-fantasy about battling the Nazis, it is difficult not to lean towards Raiders of the Lost Ark. And in Star Wars, when George Lucas named the Empire soldiers after the German Stormtroopers, he really did twist up the ideas of fantasy and history. Director Joe Johnston just had to make his Nazi Hydra Soldiers look like blackfaced Star Wars style Storm Troopers, and Boba Fett's your uncle... Bad guys!

A shot for shot recreation of the pena-climactic chase sequence from Return of the Jedi, however, was completely surplus to requirement.. The coathanger rope to knock the bad guy down? Check. Left some surprise explodey things behind to blow the next bad guy up? Check. Two dudes on very fast motorbikey things trying to overtake through the scrub in the other lane? Check. I thought at any moment the Ewoks were about to jump out and help.

4. Bobble Head SFX

I think it was kind of cool that the film included a pre-buff Chris Evans, before super powers, super strength and super cut abs. But seeing his enormous head on his tiny body through the wonders of CGI just made me disconcerted. I mean, supporting that weight would cause some serious neck strain.

5. The lack of attention to the AMAZING support cast.

Yeah, Chris Evans, chiseled jaw, rippling muscles, blah blah.

What about Dominic Cooper?! Huh? He of History Boys and The Duchess fame. Casting wise, he is pretty perfect for a Robert Downey Jr Daddy. Suave, cocky, liable to make mistakes and not admit them. But where was his dialogue? Where was his screen time? Give me Cooper over Evans ANY day.

And Our Hugo? Weaving is the antagonist, and he plays the sociopath like an expert indeed. But there just wasn't enough opportunity for us to see it.

But the biggest tragedy of the cutting room/story editing has to be Stanley Tucci. I love him. I have loved him forever. Not in a want-to-jump-his-bones kind of way, but in a could-watch-him-forever kind of way. As a character actor, he is so versatile. Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream. The husband in Julie & Julia. The dad in Easy A. The tragic clown in The Devil Wears Prada. But my all time favourite Stanley Tucci film is The Imposters. Farcical hilarity, with Oliver Platt & Billy Connolly. But I digress.

Surely with a character as complex as Dr Abraham Erskine, escaping the Nazis to use his scientific formula for the good guys instead, could have been given more of a role? I know, the Hero needs the motivation to rage against the enemy, but... I don't need to offer solutions to my whinges do I?

Unfortunately, we didn't stick around to see the teaser for the next Avengers film at the end of the final credits. I've heard it's special, and I probably should have made the time for it, but I was so blerged out by
the whole film, I thought it time to go.

Only see this if you... plan on seeing the next ones? Iron Man it ain't.

The X Factor

2011-06-05T06:48:00.000-07:00

My deep seated obsession with James McEvoy has been documented. Shameless, Atonement, Macbeth, Becoming Jane, Narnia, Wanted... If my James wasn't the best thing about these movies/shows, then he was pretty darn close.

My long running infatuation with the X-Men franchise is no secret. And my penchant for superhero flicks, either the original characters or the comic book derivatives is not something I am ashamed of.

The only thing that has kept my excitement about the latest prequel, X-Men: First Class has been the insanity that is my life of late, and the discipline of my routine of Expectation Management. Not only does this movie have superheroes in silly suits, not only does it have character drenched back-story, not only does it have the uber-hot January Jones and the super-sexy Rose Byrne, but the condescending and ever-so-slightly bossy boots of Professor Francis Xavier is played by the oh-so-delicious James McAvoy!!

But he isn't the best thing in the movie.

In terms of a review, there isn't really much to say. There isn't much that is unexpected about the plot - the conflict in increasing stakes, the war between the mutants and the humans. The set pieces are a little predictable - pretty fab, action packed, lots of henchmen getting slain. The overarching message of the piece - the issues of the greater good, the question of a struggle for identity, of being true to ones self - these are not new messages, and are certainly not new for the franchise. The big, weighty, clunky "B-Word", known in depth by English teachers, and feared by HSC students for the last few year, is hurled around with gay abandon.

I always like an alternative history. First Class is set post WWII, in the time of hunting those nasty Nazis, and with the Cold War freaking everyone else out. And seeing the Cuban Missile Crisis play out with mutants was significantly more explodey and special effecty than the walky-talky Katy Holmes-Greg Kinnear version on The Kennedys tonight. Funny how a piece of history hits you from multiple angles in one day. Whereas The Last Stand heavily cemented the metaphor of mutantism with homosexuality, this prequel centres it back on the cultural or religious stereotypes and prejudices. The oppressive fear of nuclear war, the threat of the Red Other, the commies, is effective as a metaphor for the evolutionary revolution that the mutants continue to harp on about.

The performances are all pretty good - though some are better than others. Jennifer Lawrence is a little bit Squinty McPout for my liking. Very soon, some sassy director is going to cast her as Helen Hunt's sister. Or daughter. Or past-self. My beloved James is suitably smug, conveying Patrick Stewart's later arrogance. Though his tendancy to massage his temple is a little annoying. Kevin Bacon continues to look disturbingly piggy (is this nominative determanism at its most literal?) but doesn't seem to be quite evil enough as the major antagonist, Sebastian Shaw.

So if you weren't going to see the film anyway, there is nothing I can say that is going to inspire you to do it.

Except for perhaps two words.

Michael. Fassbender.

A brilliant name like this hasn't been seen since Benedict Cumberbatch. And he has the talent - both acting and physical- to support a brilliant name like this.

The character of Magnito requires some serious screen gravity. Sir Ian McKellen has it. Great voice, lived in face, rich in character. This character has to be able to walk the thin wire between total meglamaniac, and a voice of insanity that actually speaks the truth. He recognises the precarious nature of humans - their capacity for unrestrained cruelty and violence. And chooses to fight back, rather than bend to human pressure.

And Fassbender walks that line with grace. I've seen him in Inglorious Basterds and Band of Brothers, and his face is so likeable, so manly and chiseled. And that hint of Irish lilt doesn't hurt either. So I think I have just found yet another gentleman for my celebrity crush list. Almost ALL of the reviews I have seen and heard have agreed that Fassbender is the highlight of this installment. And I'm with them.

The X-Men franchise is not without its problems. The sexual politics of the original 1963 comics is understandably problematic. We are talking pre-sexual revolution here. Jean Grey is completely objectified, totally passive in her powers and ever the damsel-in-distress that needs rescuing. Even the post-feminist installments are not necessarily pro-grrl. The inclusion/tokenism of various races - and the 'disposable' nature of some of the un-Caucasian characters makes me a little uneasy. And the temporal setting of the Cold War in this one raises the issues of the women's place - in the CIA, in the sexual manipulation of men, in combat situations... The question I tend to ask myself is if I love the characters enough to ignore the blatant and latent bigotry?

Of course, the ending is set up for another follow up. Though, I think it would be rather confusing to run THREE different time lines on the one franchise. The Wolverine line, with the sequel with Hugh Jackman (scrummy), and something about Japan. And then the Deadpool Origins film with Ryan Reynolds (more scrummy-ness). Then there is this line, with the First Class kiddies, the beginning of the X-Men Academy. I think it should be called X-Men: Second Class, but that might be seeming like a judgement call on the story or something. Wiki says it is X-Men: First Class 2. And then there is the original series, with an X4 film slated as a possibility.

Bring it on, I say. I will hand over my money to the box office every time.

"This Week". Or "Bad Poetry that is Not Well Thought Out". Or "I'm Tired."

2011-06-03T06:55:00.000-07:00

Radio silence again.

Here is why.

Monday.
4 periods.
90 min staff meeting of being told what a shit job we're doing.
2 hours of report writing.

Tuesday.
6 hours of school.
45 minute welfare meeting.
2 hours rehearsal for closely pending play.
1 hour report writing.
Basketball.

Wednesday.
6 hours again.
4 periods again.
Piecing together emotional boys and refereeing minor conflicts.
2 hours rehearsal for closer pending play.
2 hours reports.

Thursday.
6 hours school.
Cancelled soccer training - one hour of Me time to chase the B Team before their player numbers increase.
3 hours duty.
2 hours report writing.

Friday.
4 hours of class.
2 hours of soccer training, but not my team.
1 hour of game, U14s vs the Privos from Up The Hill.
5 hours of watching/supervising football in various codes.

On morning TV
A giggly blonde woman said
That if you work more than 11 hours a day,
you are 64% more likely to have a heart attack.

Bring on Europe!

Bluesfest: The Rest of Day 1 - Trombone Shorty, The Bamboos & Franti

2011-05-08T06:46:00.000-07:00

Music has the most amazing power to infect with emotion, to uplift, to educate and to make you wiggle your butt.

First step after the surprise of Timmy Rodgers, and after tracking down the various members of my extended family with limited phone signal (damn you Vodafone!!), was the phenomenal Mavis Staples. Gospel music, soul music, and tunes from the civil rights movement, with a kicking voice and an amazing stage presence. She is a little bit like music royalty, getting the nods from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Rolling Stone Top 100 singers of all time and Grammy Lifetime Achievement. And the lady deserves it all.

Her cover of 'The Weight" really kicked the crowd into gear, and her special guests on the stage made us all very excited for the next act. But more on that in a moment. The set of lungs on this lady was most impressive, and her command of the crowd was incredible.

But next... Next was Trombone Shorty (the future Mr Proctor, he will soon be joining our gang of merry revellers) & Orleans Avenue. Oh my.

I stayed to watch these dudes on the recommendation of American Danny. As opposed to me, Australian Danne. Or Sane Danne. That might hint at what American Danny is like, if I am the benchmark for sanity. Though given the brilliance of Trombone Shorty and his band, his sanity is hardly called into question from me.

I heartily regret not getting to New Orleans before it was ravaged by Katrina. But if the music scene is as alive and well as this talented outfit, I should get myself on a plane without delay. To start with, Trombone Shorty (Troy to his mother, personally I like his pseudonym better) is fit. Like the British version of fit. a proper athlete of a muso, using his chiselled abs and sculpted muscles to belt out every note on his trombone and trumpet. And belting out is kind of an understatement. One note lasted for something close to forever, but really was probably about two minutes. Circular breathing never looked so sexy.

The uber-sexy Trombone Shorty. Photo thanks to Mikey J.

But Shorty wasn't the only talent on the stage. Each band member was rocking on his instrument of choice. And then in the final number, there was a quick band conference huddle in the centre of the stage. Without skipping a beat, Shorty took the drumsticks, and took over the rhythm. There was a shuffle of the weapons of choice, and the band played on. Impressive!

Spirits were sky high after those antics and those upbeat relentless tunes.

And there was nowt that battle-of-the-fros seventies-throwbacks Wolfmother could do about it. I have never been their biggest fan anyway. Perhaps "Joker & The Thief may be the only one that gets me wiggling. But I found their performance significanly lacking in pizzazz. But perhaps that was just because I still wanted to be tasting Trombone instead of Led Zeppelin...

If you approach your day at a festival uncertain about where you will spend the headlining set, there is a chance you may fall into the Indecisive Trap that I fell in on Day 1. I really wanted to see The Bamboos. I've got an album, I like them a lot, and I have heard great things about them live. But Michael Franti was playing at exactly the same time. And the rest of the tribe were resolute about that.

So I started at The Bamboos. Solid Aussie funk and soul. Horns aplenty. More rhythm than an old school Dulux Paint ad. And their lead singer Kylie Auldist CAN wail! Massive voice with a fab head of curls, a great rack (I notice these kinds of things), a stunning dress... But most importantly SEQUINED BLUE CHUCK TAYLORS!!!!! I have a sneaky suspicion that while Kylie is billed as the 'feature' singer, she actually rules the roost. Her attitude and awesome voice made me fall just a little bit in love with her. I was kind of tempeted to stick it out at the smaller stage... But...

Kylie & the Bamboos. The tragedy is you can't see her shoes!!

I am so pleased I caught The Bamboos. But I feel like I missed the best part of their set. I feel like they were just building up to something pretty special when I snuck back to the Crossroads Stage to catch the end of Michael Franti's set.

And it was going NUTS!!

The whole tent was jumping, and the bidding of the dreadlocked and tattooed singer songwriter, his voice undulating between gentle and soulful to vehement and inspired. I could see the infection effect Franti was having on the crowd, but I just couldn't emerse myself in it. Whether it was a case of 'you had to be there' from the start in order to get the glee, or whether there was a little piece of myself kicking me for leaving the brilliant Bamboos set, I will never know.

Having said that, he was pretty darn amazing. He did a walk through the crowd, and played a verse within spitting distance of me and the rest of the bouncing tribe. He told stories of his chats with songwiriting idol Bob Dylan, with such an affable and genuine nature I think we all just wanted to take him home with us to our rambling beach house. With his final song, he invited all the kids and oldies up to boogie on stage - and filled all the rest of us with life-affirming lyrics and melodies. <> <>

Franti, just over there. Not even very much zoom being used here, if any at all.

It was a brilliant way to end Day One. My face hurt from my Live Music Grin. My feet hurt from dancing in gumboots. I was tired, sore but so so happy. And there was still two more days of fun to go.

Bluesfest: The Start & The Surprise

2011-05-07T22:01:00.000-07:00

I love a music festival.

I love the fact that brilliant, world class musos can converge on a patch of green for one day (or more) of celebration, of music and of life.

I was delighted when my tribe from The Big Smoke included me on their excursion to Bluesfest in Byron Bay this year. The epic weekend of Easter and ANZAC Day, what better way to celebrate that music, dancing and good company? I think it is what Jesus and our fighting soldiers would have wanted.

My roadtrip to Byron began with "Oliver's Army", by Elvis Costello blasting through my brand spanking new car stereo (thanks Sparky!), and I kept myself on a healthy musical diet of the lineup all the way to the coast. Bob Dylan, The Cat Empire, Michael Franti and Clare Bowditch sung me up and over the mountains, and down to the sea.

So rock'n'roll. Photo from Mikey J.

All seven of the tribe converged on a gorgeous rambling house, just a short walk out of town. We feasted on fabulous food, drank spectacular cocktails - and the next day set off for Tyagarah Tee Tree farm for three days of bluesing and rootsing.

Just outside the gate, I saw a PNG flag, snapping proudly in the breeze. Despite the fact I haven't been there (YET!) we Levys have a strong connection to the land to the north. Dad grew up there, and spends most of his spare time collecting school and hospital supplies to send to Mt Hagen. That is really where he grew up, his hometown. In PNG Pidgin, they call it "arseplace", which I think is a lovely bit of linguistics. Anyway, the site of this flag has always seemed to me a pretty good omen for good times to come.

And how right it was!

We entered.

We did a bit of decision by committee, that always takes a bit of time. And just when the Committee Decision was 'Let's go for a look around', I heard the melodic voice of Julia Zamiro, host of music geek show RocKwiz.

"Welcome to the stage, our very good friend, Tim Rodgers!"

Well. I nearly buckled at the knees at the thought. I had scoured the program with a glimmer of hope that he or his band (one of) would be on the lineup, but was disappointed. And then, Julia came through with the goods!

Bare chested, in a fuschia velour blazer, he rocked out covering The Stones before starring as a gracious and yet knowledgable contestant. And then he carved up the stage at the end (now totally sans shirtwear) with David Bowie's "Fame", with a bridge of "Ignition Remix", initially made famous by pirate R. Kelly, but much more enjoyable covered by The Pigs. The stage was then flooded by superstars from all kinds of festival bands for a mega-cover of Kiss' "Rock and Roll All Night"- a very fitting number to kick off a festival with... and party everyday.

Timmy, bare chested, doing Bowie. My favouritist photo of the WHOLE festival. Thanks again, Mikey J!

Timmy Rodgers has been a long standing favourite of mine. You Am I played at the very first concert I ever went to (Crowded House's "Farewell to the World" in case you were wondering.) They were really the deciding factor in the road trip with The O Team to see the last ever Powederfinger gig in Brisbane - despite the fact that we had already farewelled Bernie and the Boys in West Bubblefuck a few months earlier. I've seen You Am I play about half a dozen times. And I have seen Timmy solo a few too - seriously that man must own so many velvet, velour and corduroy suits. For a sweaty man, I find this quite surprising. But my point is that my love for the seventies styled guru of the Aus music scene is pretty boundless and to see him in person (again) was one of those Music Goosebumps (or Musebumps? Think that one needs some work) kind of moments.

The RocKwiz ep was also pretty awesome. One contestant did a pretty ripping version of Pat Benatar's "Hit me with your best shot" for the karaoke round. At least I thought it was ripping until a dude from the next team tore the stage apart with Dragon's "April Sun in Cuba" flicking the lyrics away with reckless abandon, and accompanying his massive voice with drama-student-style interpretive dance moves. Impressive.

It was a brilliant start to the three day bonanza. Many Music Goosebumps (surely I can come up with a better name than that...) moments were to come, many more surprises and brilliant songs and chances to boogie on down. It had only just begun!

Return to the field. Or How my body is beginning to betray me

2011-05-07T03:44:00.000-07:00

This here digi-tome has mentioned my efforts at coaching. I took the Mighty U13s to third 2 years ago, and last year the same boys (or mostly) went down 1-0 in the GF. This year I have taken on another squad of Mighty U13s, a new assistant supercoach and a different set of strengths and weaknesses. So far so good, one win, one loss, one draw. The team hasn't really played to its potential yet, but I have faith that they will finish the season strongly.

But even more importantly than my sideline encouragements and masterminding puppetry of young footballers is my own return to the park.

Moving back to West Bubblefuck four years ago, I was devastated to learn that there was no women's football competition. I think the words I actually spake (I'm teaching Shakespeare at the moment, and it is affecting my vocab) were "What kind of a backwards town am I living in?!" At the end of each game of coaching for the last two years I have ended up bubbling with unspent adrenaline, and each week I made a small curse (silently or otherwise) that there was no comp I could play in to spend the pent up energy. Sure, I could play with the blokes, but my serious lack of fitness kind of embarrassed me out of that.

This year, the West Bubblefuck District Football Association has finally got a 6 a side comp off the ground. Just.

In the last two months I have been palpable in my desperation to find players. I emailed parents, I mentioned it in almost every conversation "Do you know anyone that might be interested in playing women's soccer?" West Bubblefuck has a really great culture of sport - a thriving netball comp, a really successful basketball comp, hockey, tennis, austag AND touch, indoor mixed soccer, cricket and netball... West Bubblefuck women play a number of sports, and tend to keep playing them until their bodies betray them. As mine may well currently be doing.

Yes I have been getting my competitive kicks with the Flames on the baskeball court for a little over a year. But this has led to various joints of mine deciding they will no longer operate at 100%.

Betrayal.

But I have loved the round ball game dearly for over 15 years, and it is where my sporting heart truly lies. Despite the fact that Sparky despises the game in an unworldly kind of way. So when I managed to get 7 ladies together, I contacted a club and poached a few more players, helped to coordinate a SECOND team and became a part of a women's football comp in my backwards town.

But then of course, not everyone could make it this week.

I showed up with 3 other girls, hoping desperately for some juniors to help us out. We found one. And then sneakily poached one of the keepers from our opposition.

Since I dinged my shoulder a month ago, I haven't graced the basketball court. I haven't been to body balance, or to the gym at all. I may have walked the dog a few times, but nothing that was really strenuous. Within three minutes of kick off, I was scraping the bottom of my lungs for breath. Turns out, a complete lack of exercise leads to a seriously diminished fitness. Who knew?

Betrayal.

I was delighted to be playing a shortened game. 30 minute halves instead of 45. Six a side instead of 11. Half field. As it was, I was wheezing and doing so much field walking that if I was COACHING me, I would have given myself a total blast at half time. Imagine if I had played the real mccoy? At the end of the hour, I was already aching. My stupid basketballed ankle was moaning, my niggly basketballed shoulder was whining (from the throw ins).

Betrayal.

As I limped to my car, my calves started to seize, and the burn set in to my quads.

Betrayal.

Delayed onset muscle soreness - which the professionals call DOMS, but I like to call Second Day Syndrome - will ensure that tomorrow I will be tight and achy. And even worse on Monday I will find it difficult to walk.

Betrayal once more.
But despite the fact that my body is kicking me back, and despite the fact that my team went down 6-0, and despite the fact that half a dozen dudes from The Boy Factory sat on the side line as a witness to my defeat (against the team in black and white, and against my body) setting my humliation up for further discussion over the course of the week, I had such a brilliant time.

I just hope I can get my body to work with me a little better next week. The South West Bubblefuck Womens Green Machine has started its epic journey and I hope it is long and fruitful and rich in great football.

Paul. Has it all.

2011-05-01T01:39:00.000-07:00

A confession: I do not like ET. I realise it is seminal film for my generation (when I decide to side with the Xers), and a huge part of allowing sci-fi to leap from the fringe to the mainstream. I know it is meant to be this highly emotional and cathartic tale of coming of age and self sacrifice, a total tear jerker - but it leaves me dry. I just find it kind of slow and overly sentimental.

But that doesn't mean I don't love it when very smart, funny (and somehow quirkily sexy ) British boys make a filmic love letter to the movie, and the entire genre.

The poster. Classic over shot, under the UFO light.

Paul is a fantastic film. The boys behind the script and in front of the camera, Nick Frost and Simon Pegg, have been firm favourites of mine for... a decade? More? Pegg wrote Spaced, my televisual one true love. He and Frost starred there as best mates. They were best mates in the Pegg-penned Shaun of the Dead, the first zombie romantic comedy - or ZomRomCom (possibly the 2nd one being Zombieland). They became best mates in the Pegg-penned village cop - slash - slasher flick Hot Fuzz (note to self: rewatch this. Yarp.) And this real life friendship comes to life on screen again in the Pegg-Frost-penned Paul. They play geeks, on an exploration holiday of famous alien sighting sites in the USA, who happen upon Paul, the green, chain smoking, potty mouthed alien (voiced by Seth Rogen).

Check out the tshirts!!!! Pegg's Empire - a blatant homage. Wiig's Evolve This - you can't see the image of Jesus shooting Darwin in the face.

The three films are sometimes referred to as the Three Flavours Cornetto Trilogy (though Paul is sadly lacking in the waffle coned treat). All three are genre mash ups. Not in the pisstake Wayans Bros kind of way, but more of a celebration, filled with inside references, allusions and in-jokes that will only be truly appreciated by officiandos of each genre (which is just a long way to say Geek.) And the love letter of Paul is addressed to many recipients. ET and its auter, Steven Spielberg. A few of his other films, Close Encounters of the Third Kind and quite a few of the Indiana Jones installments. All manner of sci-fi stuff - The X-Files, Alien, Men In Black... Geeks that are geekier than me (because yes, that is indeed possible) have made lists to catalogue all of the references and allusions.

One gets the impression that these characters are not an enormous stretch for Pegg and Frost. Friendship? Not much need for acting there. Geeks with an indepth knowledge of all things Star Wars and sci-fi novels? Not much research required. The affection they have for the material here is as palpable as their love for each other. All three of these films have the one common bromance - the love between two blokes, platonic and unconditional.

Paul, the character, sets the whole action in motion. Sets the uncertainty and jealousy off between "the writer Clive Gollings" (Frost) and Graeme Willy (Pegg). Propells them from meandering to a more purposeful mission. Changes the whole outlook and attitude of Creationist Fundamentalist (emphasis on the mental) Ruth (the ever fabulous Kristen Wiig), transforming her from a meek, Darwin-hating, devoted daughter to a swearing, toking, crotch grabbing (others' not hers) partner-in-hijinx love interest for Graeme. Her passage of learning to swear brought particular glee for me, especially the brand new term "dick milk." Paul's gestures and voice are pure Rogen. Disbelief is suspended perfectly, and the awareness of CGI nature of the character disperses, like his ever present ciggie smoke. He looks a little like an alienified Lebowski. All slacker boardies and thongs (I refuse to call them flip flops!)

Classic wind fan, back lit, confused expression sci fi shot

Most of the reviews I have read give it a solid 4 stars. And I think that is grand, particularly when David & Margaret can find a point of agreement. Even the usually uber-geeky Empire gave it four. But in my opinion this is too modest. I can see how some more adult type people than me may have a problem with the profanities. Or the drug use. And most certainly, the Christian type people may find the overt and blatant atheism fairly confronting (but I must admit I found it fairly refreshing - such obvious anti-religious film making has not been seen since The Golden Compass, and that was not done with much style at all - at least not with the same finesse as Pullman's brilliant His Dark Materials trilogy. But I digress. Again.)

With its inherent geekiness, its self referential pomo references and its science-over-God attitude, I reckon this is one of the best films I have seen in ages. Right after I saw it, I kind of got the feeling that I didn't want to consume any other culture for a little while. Kind of like the same sensation you get at the end of a delicious meal - you don't want to muddle the flavour with more food or wine or water, but savour the taste, and let it sit on your tongue a while longer.

Tangible proof of memory

2011-04-14T04:50:00.000-07:00

Nostalgia is a funny thing. According to the wisdom of the internoodle, it comes from the Greek words for Homecoming and Pain or Ache. The idea of the good old days. The notion of "living in the past! Hung up on some clown from the 60s!" (cannot help but slide into Seinfeld when the idea of living in the past comes up).

When I came home from South West Rocks, it was not a pain (aside from my errant and wilful sinuses and ear canals. And the mountain of marking to embark on.) Sure, I was glum that my escape to the seaside was over, and that Sparky had to be up before the birds for work the next day. But being home, not so painful.

There was a few gifts to greet me.

In preparation for an upcoming move (perhaps some grey nomading?), my parents have decided that I am grown up enough now not to store all my stuff a their place. Three neat piles of boxes and bags of irregular sizes and states of disrepair. Full of what can best be described as Stuff. I think this is where the Miscellaneous Crap from ALL of my house moves has ended up.

I call them my Nostalgia Showbags. ('Tis the season for the Royal Easter Show, after all.)

I found my Year 10 formal dress. The cowboy boots I wore to my 21st party. An essay I wrote for Year 11 drama about Cosi - the play I will be teaching to Year 12 at The Boy Factory next term (I got an A, 19/20. I don't think it was worth that much. I would have only given me a 15... But I've been told I'm pretty harsh!) My university assignments from the first year of my BA. My birthday cards from my 21st.

More fresian cow print than I care to admit.

That indistinguishable mass at the back is a pyjama top.

I seem to have kept every ticket, program and flyer for all the shows I've ever seen.

This is just some the flyers from the latest Edinburgh trip. But you can just see (top right) a ticket stub for The King's Speech.

Last night, my bedtime story was reading my journal from age 17 to 20.

Full of teenaged angst and really awful poetry. The English teacher I am now wants to take the hand of that cliched over-writer and show her how to use a red pen. Ah, the power of the red pen. If I knew then...
Of course, as with most half-arsed writers, I only ever wrote when I was in the throws of emotional turmoil - more often than not over a Boy - or too bored to think of anything else to do. Part scrapbook, part journal, part artwork... It is an artefact. It charts the rise (but not always getting off the ground) and fall of a number of significant relationships of my past. Romance and love and unrequited lust and friendships. It is truly a tome of the last moments of the 20th century. But this is Not a book that I want my parents to read. Or anyone I actually know. For when I die, I may well put it on the Burn Before Reading list, and organise a buddy to get to my home before my parents do to destroy the evidence. Like an arrangement some blokes have about destroying their porn (or maybe that is just on Coupling.)

And then there are the letters. And birthday cards. And notes. The signs off my door in college. 21st birthday invitations from that season of about two years long, where almost every weekend was a road trip somewhere in the state for another. Posters from all of the plays I have been involved in. Boxes of photographs.

Basically, if you know me, and you have ever sent me a birthday card or given me a drawing or written me a note, chances are, I probably have it.

I've had a good time living in the past. Finding new homes for my old rubbishy things. Deciding to ditch the stuff I really really don't need. Reading unsent letters, covering the full range of emotions from puppy love to vehement spite. Kind of makes me wonder how I'll feel when I read this blog is 10 years time...

But there is no Home Pain here. I'm really pleased I'm not that girl I once was (despite all the lovely messages on my 21st birthday card saying "don't change, your awesome!" (sic).

The Resolutions: Checking in

2011-04-11T21:13:00.000-07:00

Not that you care, but more so I am accountable to the universe for the promises I have made. In January there were some pledges committed to the wide ether, and here, and the quarter-way-through mark, it is time to assess. First up, the Reading Resolutions.

1. The Road, Cormack McCarthy
This still is getting rave attention, from my head teacher, from my not-real friends on the First Tuesday Book Club. And still it sits, unmolested on my mantlepiece, mocking me in its pale blue jacket. I'll get there.

2. The Hound of the Baskervilles - Arthur Conan Doyle
Sherlock and Watson remain unread and unfollowed. Sigh.

3. Breath - Tim Winton
This one has been ridden, all the way to the shore. A substitute for not actually getting into the ocean on my summer holiday.

4. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
This too has been ignored and unread. Should possibly stop watching Gossip Girl and actually devour some modern lit... (low brow trashy TV guilt, will you never leave me?)

5. Antigone - Sophocles
She has been sent to the cave and has been read! I loved this play, and the fact that my Year 11s at The Boy Factory didn't hate it is testament to the fact that it is a brilliant story with some deliciously hateable characters and a tragic ending. Though their purposeful mispronounciation of Oedipus seriously erked me.

6. A Monster Calls - Patrick Ness
This beasty isn't out until the 2nd of May. So I think I may be forgiven on this one?

And the boring ones:

1. Shoes.
So yesterday I did buy some more thongs. But my green ones are just about kicked it, so as long as I turf them as soon as I get home, this is allowed.
Sparky did present some startling information. In his scoffing and generally unsupportive behaviour towards this particular resolution, he pointed out a disturbing fact.
I am going OS this year. I will be strolling the streets of Soho and Covent Garden and gay Paree and Istanbul. With a pumping Aussie Dollar. He doubts the strength of my resolve when facing these new circumstances (and now I do too). But so long as I can turf some high rotations OUT, then it is still within the parameters of the rules. Right?

2. 52 blog entries
Due to my awesome averages in January, I am not TOTALLY behind in this. But I will probably need to MAKE some time during term to devote to this here e-tome if I am to be successful.

3. Sweat x 3 per week.
Despite illness and injury, I am making my best go of this. But I could do better. Can someone tell my shoulder to stop packing it in please?

4. Spots
Right. I WILL make an appointment for this when I get back to West Bubblefuck. I have done the dentist (for the first time in I Do Not Care To Say How Long) but that was an unkept resolution from 2 years ago. So it doesn't count.

5. $100 per week
This has been happening. It has been brilliant. I have spent it all on the OS trip already, so it doesn't really feel like I have saved, but I have!

If I was marking my progress as a teacher, I would probably get a high C grade. Or a low B. But seeing as I am "The hardest marker" at The Boy Factory, I would undoubtedly be harsh on myself...Room for improvement, but showing potential...

Escape to the Seaside

2011-04-11T20:45:00.000-07:00

After ten and a half long weeks of molding (or moulding? - could I be coating their brains with greenish scum?) young minds, confiscating spray deoderant, failing to track down a thief and helping to write 120 essays, I was exhausted. Just smashed. Like close to tears for no reason all the time kind of tired. If someone had have pulled the "Teachers get too many holidays" line on me in one of those last weeks, I would have sconed them, Glasgow Kiss style. Then I would have sat on their chest and tried to drown them in my irrational flood of tears, Alice in Wonderland style.

But the light at the end of the tunnel is in the shape of almost three weeks off - Easter and ANZAC Day conspire to give us an extra long break. And what better way to escape the Boy Factory and West Bubblefuck than to hijack Sparky's brother's family holiday at South West Rocks? Ah, nothing. There is no better way than that.

Sleep little town, with a few cafes (where the coffee is just passable for the addiction and to keep the whinging at bay) and a few pubs with great counter meals and a few days of sunshine to ease the pain of marking those 120 essays that I helped to write. Beachside markets for a new raffia fedora, and a gorgeous trinket for Mum's birthday. Sparky distracted by (largely unsuccessful) fishing trips. Cold beers, chilled cider, wickedly good gelato. A few dunks in the ocean (already more than I got in my Almost A Disaster summer floody road trip.) Time to paint my nails and read some pages and watch some trashy DVDs... Holidays? Yes please!

However, South West Rocks brings me just one gripe. I have NEVER understood why it is called South West Rocks. Yes, it is indeed rocky. There is a plethora of rocks. No misnomer there. But exactly what is it South West of? The USA? The moon? Fiji?

Really, if that is my biggest problem, then I seem to be going OK, right?

Travel Plans

2011-03-23T03:58:00.000-07:00

Warning: Serious First World Whinges may be contained in this post.

Week 9 in an 11 week term is pretty brutal. The kids are tired, the staff are exhausted. But there is too long left in the term to down tools, and there is not enought juice left in the tank to keep powering along. (Too many mixed metaphors?) My general state of busy is demonstrated by how damn long it has been since I posted anything...

So how do I distract myself from the dramas, traumas and fairly insignificant whinges of the end of term?

Travel Plans.

Usually at this time I would be building in excitement and anticipation of giggles at the Melbourne Comedy Festival. Catching up with old friends, drinking my body weight in amazing coffee and transporting away from The Boy Factory through the magic of standup comedy. And this year, as the sun sets earlier, and the days of blasting heat are beginning to abate, thoughts of Melbourne keep arising. It's almost Pavlovian.

But I'm not headed to Mexico City this year. Despite the fact that I was promised an AFL game, and despite the fact that there are new tiny friends to meet. And it's because 2011 has some richer variety of travel plans.

First jaunt, Easter - The East Coast Blues & Roots Festival. Or Bluesfest.

The lineup is cracking. Bob Dylan. The Cat Empire. Elvis Costello. Clare Bowditch (she doesn't know it yet, but I have a mad girl-crush on her)

I haven't been to this fabulous festival for YEARS. Possibly since before I turned 18. It is a tradition for the extended clan, and there is a tribe of folks from the Big Smoke making the trek all the way to Byron town. And they have a HOUSE booked (read: hot shower & actual bed). It won't be a cheap weekend, by any stretch. But if I keep control of my pennies, it shouldn't have a huge impact on The Big Trip.

Ah, The Big Trip. When my head teacher mentioned a senior history excursion to the battlefields of Europe, my first question was "Yes?"

We go to Gallipoli, Ypres, the Somme and Paris. Then I have taken a sneaky week off to flit up London to see some of the best people I know. Plus some theatre, some warm beer and an extra week of "summer" in my year. Right now I am using this trip as my crutch - when the weight of being Mum to 110 becomes a bit too much, when the pile of marking threatens to smother me alive, when the piles of disorganisation on my desk in the staffroom are in danger of toppling over into a lava flow of unfiled paperwork, I get quotes for travel insurance. Or check prices on flights and train trips. Or research what plays are on at The Globe for 5 quid.

I was last in the UK in 2008, for The Best Thing Humans Have Ever Invented Ever, usually referred to as the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. And my time with The A Team and new friends there was brilliant. Hard work, and hard on my liver (seriously, I still don't think I have recovered). I am just a few weeks early this year, and so I will miss TBTHHEIE. A shame, for sure.

The excitement is building for this looming trip. It is my distractinator for sure.

OscarsFest 2011: Psychotic Ballerinas

2011-02-11T05:42:00.000-08:00

Believe it or not. I used to to ballet. For 7 years, I donned tutus, and leather slippers, and pale tights. I slicked my hair back into a bun. I turned out my toes, and plied with the best of them. It may be difficult to comprehend, what with me not being the most graceful or coordinated of humans in my current state. I am the klutziest person I know, with falling apart joints and more scars and dings than I would like. But I used to be quite the lithe, flexible thing, with limbs under control. Of course that was before puberty hit. And an independent social life. And, as if by some strange coincidence (by which I mean no coincidence at all, in fact closer to the direct cause), my exit from the world of ballet coincided with the introduction of en pointe shoes to the class - the satin ones with the clonking great chunks of wood in the end.

Where I grew up, The Insular Peninsular, dance was a pretty big deal - the Morrison family had the monopoly on teaching all forms of dance in the sleepy suburb, and my high school had a pretty awesome track record at the Rock Eistedfordt. And then I encountered The Dancers at uni, another breed of female altogether.My views of them at the time were less than positive. They were always giggling, always wore their hair in a high, swishy ponytail, and in the theatre classes were always making inane comments that demonstrated limited knowledge of (in my not-so-humble-at-the-time opinion) of the far superior subject matter of the dramatic arts (as opposed to rolling around on the floor. Ooops I mean, modern dance.) When I went back to uni a few years later, a little older, wiser and far less arrogant, my opinion of The Dancer changed dramatically (pun entirely intended) as I worked with them in education classes. This is how prejudices are destroyed.

Black Swan does nothing to dispel a negative image of The Dancer. Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman) is a devoted ballerina - 28 years old. Young in comparison to the retiring Beth (Winona Ryder - a little bit of art reflecting life? She is playing the washed up has-been. And unfortunately it is a slipper that fits), but little effort has been made to disguise Portman's well earned wrinkles. She is given the once in a lifetime opportunity of playing The Role of Swan Lake, the twin blades of the weakling, fearful White Swan, and the vindictive, seductive Black Swan. She is a technically brilliant dancer, precise and detached - basically the White Swan is captured in her dancing perfectly. But she fails to evoke the passion and unpredictability of the Black. And this frustrates her misogynistic and autocratic director, Thomas (Vincent Cassel.)

The nightmarish experience of dealing with self-doubt, director's criticism and a smothering mother (Barbara Hershey) is the strength of the plot, as we a drawn through he experience along with Nina, never knowing what is real or what is her imagination gone haywire.The extreme pressure, or perhaps the predisposition for psychosis, but poor Nina drops fast through paranoia, hallucinations and full on schizophrenic episodes, in the quest for the perfect performance. The deterioration of her psyche is literally reflected and refracted through the ever-present mirrors that confront her everywhere she goes. The first act is weaker - establishing the misery of her strictured life through the power of a hand held camera is not nearly as interesting as her descent into madness.

There are a number of concepts arising from this film that have already been a bit of a preoccupation for me. The fact that I was aware of this in the middle of watching the film may say something about my level of absorption (is that even a word?) in the story, but I became more soluble towards the end I think.

First up, the whole idea of performance, of engaging the audience in a moment on the stage is certainly not foreign in my life. One might call my focus on the theatrical akin to obsession, especially about 10 years ago. And some of my friends from these heady days have actually become more than a touch successful. I am positive that all of my other friends are sick and tired of hearing the CLUNK of my name dropping about my fabulous tribe. But I digress... My point is that I have come to see up close just how the life of a performer is affected by them becoming their occupation. There is a bar scene in the film where a guy asks Nina who she is, and she answers "a dancer," because it isn't just what she does, it defines her absolutely. I have seen how this happens to real people, not just the elite New York prima ballerinas. I have seen relationships disintegrate under the pressure of the inward focus required of a performer. Portman and director Darren Aronofsky have captured this all-consuming introspection pretty perfectly - for Nina, she is the centre of the universe, and it is probably her pushy, ex-ballerina mother's fault.

The possibility of friendships - genuine, supportive and completely lacking in competition friendships - between women has also been something I have considered carefully. I think I first examined the issue when I was directing a show about the topic. Second wave feminism (oooh, I used the F word!!!) was in some ways striving to break down the barriers of competition - striving for the same men, the same jobs, the same money - and the intra-gender resentment that went along with that competitive streak. In the high-octane arena of performance - especially a female dense (read: bitchy) environment such as ballet - the competition is fierce. The thinner, the stronger, the more technical, the more artistic, the more passionate, the more reliable... the better? But what if that isn't the same person? The company director Thomas (pron: Toma. Under no circumstances should you pronounce the S!!) plays on this, by pitting the dancers against each other, and using their insecurities to his own ends - that being artistic adulation for him. Plus his over-use of the casting couch is more than a little unethical. A performer's ego is fragile and when there are younger, more vibrant girls lining up to stab you in the back (or drug you out of contention), the pressure is bound to be immense.

And speaking of the gender see-saw in the dance world, Thomas is really the only male of significance in the show. Sure, there are the 2 ballerinos, but they barely share 5 lines between them. Thomas is the centre of this microcosm, and he has surrounded himself with delicate flowers. Dance, as an industry, has never really had the reputation of being feminist friendly, even aside from the cut-throat competition and ambition. Anorexia is rife, weight pressure must be immense, not the accepting and welcoming environment for all shapes and sizes. I mean, one hardly gets the impossibly high cheek bones, razor sharp shoulder blades and the neck of a swan on a diet of hot chips and beer, right? And there is the sheer fact of The Gaze - Ballerina as The Viewed, not as The Artist. Thomas is the genius, and Nina is his moving canvas. There is very little empowerment for her, aside from the recognition of filling her potential within her director's vision. And how does this compare to the film as art? Director? Male. Writers? All male. Producers? Out of the 15, only 2 are ladies. Cinematography (the eye of the gaze)? Bloke. The production design, costume design and set design are all XX chromosomes, and they have done a particularly good job in it too.

I guess my point is that this film seems to be about a female character, incapable of dealing with the pressures of reality and her life, as contrived/observed by males. And I guess there is far too many of those films out there that I don't think that more examinations of the issue actually solve it. As has been said on Cougartown (an underrated comedy, I feel) "Them bitches be loco!!" But there doesn't seem to be much examination of WHY we bitches be loco, and what can be done to un-loco us, or at least un-loco the future bitches of the world.

But enough of the existential navel gazing. Sure this film made me think about things I have already thought about. But more importantly, what do I think it will do in The All Important Oscars stakes? It could get in on editing, and there is a chance for cinematography (it certainly is noticeable), but I highly doubt a director's or best film nod.

Best Actress though? Portman could well have it in the bag. She already has the SAG (teehee!) and the Golden Globe. And she is pretty darn phenomenal. Lots of reviewers (and my facebook friends) have commented on the weirdness of some of the plot points, but I think she carries these less-than-conventional horror scenes well. Her dancing is phenomenal, when the hand-held camera work lets us see it - wait, I think I am beginning to sound like David Stratton here... Anyway, from what I remember of ballet, she was pretty technically perfect. Excellent form, beautiful lines, elegance, poise... anyone might think she has been doing it all her life! She is capable of both the fragile and the passionate; she does not have the same battle that Nina has between the White and the Black sides of the role. Her confusion and frustration with her life, especially as it descends into chaos, is almost palpable, and I defy anyone not to be taken on this exceptionally emotional journey with her. Granted, I haven't seen any of the other Actress in a Leading Role performances (partly due to the shithouse delay on Australian releases, partly due to West Bubblefuck cinema being hopelessly inadequate in getting films not from the Family/Action/RomCom sections of the cine-file), but I think I will put my bet on Portman's sublime performance in this film.

And aside from the fact that she is rakishly thin in this role, she is totally stunning.

Let's not and say we did

2011-02-08T03:25:00.000-08:00

All of the good stories have been told. All the good ideas have already been created. There is no originality left, and there is no goodness left in the search for originality. These are pretty much the central tenants of the post-modern world we live in.

But the good news is, in this po-mo wasteland, that if we look at all the good stuff that has come before, all we need to do is mash it together in new and interesting ways to create new and interesting works of art. Everything old is new again.

And this is where we find Easy A.

In the minefield that is John Hughes' resume, there are several diamonds of coming of age films. He is the greatest auteur of the teenage film to date, and I can't see him being superseded at any point in time. Chicagoan high schools have not been examined by anyone else with such detail, insight or poignant The Breakfast Club plays with the archetypes of high school, all forced together in the confines of a weekend detention. And they each learn about each other, and themselves, before the detention in over.

The seminal 80s flick, Ferris Bueller's Day Off has so many dead ends in plot, so many enormous question marks about the relevance of various elements - as Easy A rightly points out, there really seems no point to the street parade with "Danke Shoen" and "Twist & Shout", but it truly is a great deal of fun. Maybe the point is that in adolescents, so much of the stuff that is done has no other purpose than mindless fun.

And my personal favourite, Cameron Crowe' Say Anything. Film makers and TV show creators have been paying homage to this film for decades now. South Park, Greek, Grey's Anatomy, The Simpsons, House and Lost have all made reference to the oh so iconic scene of John Cusack, boombox held aloft on the front lawn, belting out Peter Gabriel. Of course, the one I love best is the Spaced, with Tim and the gang in a stolen army tank, belting out Take That to win back Marcia into the modern urban family. It is such a shame that Crowe then went on to make such steaming piles of crap as Vanilla Sky (and if you haven't seen that film, please never do - it is two and half hours of your life you will never ever get back) and Elizabethtown. He is great with music though - Almost Famous is pretty brilliant, and at least the soundtrack for Elizabethtown is pretty good. But I digress, in a fairly major way.

And all of these 80s cinematic gems get a nod in Easy A, as the pinnacle of all things aspirational in a teenager's life. Judd Nelson's victorious fist pump, as evidence of his emotional connection to a lass. Escape via a ride on lawn mower chariot. And John Cusack, revealing his innermost soul through ghettoblaster speakers.

The premise of the film is basically this: Olive (Stone) lies to her bestie (whom she doesn't really like - it must a teenage girl thing, because I think I remember that sensation) to get out of weekend camping. Her lie involves a steamy date with a older boy, where she loses her V-Plates. News of her de-plating spreads fast, and she is branded all kinds of double-standard-derogatory-names by the viscious rumour mill of high school. The boys of the lower castes of high school get wind of the fact that it is a lie, and she gets all kinds of favours and gift cards to lie to the rumour mill about various sexual favours she performed for them - so they can get sexual kudos. Meanwhile, her social stock dwindles to nothing, as she takes up the Harlot mantle she has been branded with with great aplomb. But then it all kind of falls to pieces. So she uses the power of the internet to broadcast the truth about the whole sordid affair.

Emma Stone is golden in this film. Her spunky attitude and husky voice have easily made her the sexiest thing about both Superbad and Zombieland. She carries the film well, and delivers the sharp and pacey dialogue to perfection. I am always a sucker for fast-paced chat in any kind of pop culture, and when it is rich in double entendres and decorated with 80s film references, all the better! Why her character feels like such a shrinking violet is a complete mystery to me - the girl is smoking hot.

There has been some criticism leveled at Easy A for being a less-than adequate remake of Nathanial Hawthorne's antiquated and dry The Scarlett Letter, a la Clueless/Emma. But I don't think it is a REMAKE of the book - a book I think I studied in Year 10 or 11 (and thought was lame and dumb and stupid. Unfortunately, I didn't find the message inside it with such clarity and poignancy as Emma Stone's character did in this film.) It may well be a relook at the themes and events of the book, through the lens of the 21st century. But even then, the approach to adultery is just a little bit too Overly Judgemental for my liking. I mean, I realise that most of my time is spent with Boys in this here Factory, and the film mostly focuses on the Girls and their perspective. And perhaps in Australia, teenagers have a slightly more cavalier attitude to sexing than in the mostly-white suburbs of California. The whole notion of being branded a "super-slut" after reportedly sleeping with just one guy is a bit difficult to swallow. But I do still know the awesome power of the rumour mill, which is still alive and kicking in West Bubblefuck, even if it is slightly less judgemental in the adultery stakes.

But that is basically the butt of the satire here - people treat sex with such a strange mixture of fear, excitement and hypocrisy, and the human desire for salacious gossip is really its lowest form of entertainment. The twisted Chinese Whispers games of high school actually don't change much as life goes on. It crosses cultures and countries and generations. And it really shows the nastiest side of human nature when it happens. Don't get me wrong, I've been a Grade 1 Gossiper in my time, and have been stung from the rumour mill myself.

The Evangelicals are also susceptible to some scathing parody in this flick. Amanda Byrnes is brilliantly over the top as the incredibly pious and uber-bitchy leader of the God Squad. She seems to have forgotten the Golden Rules of Do Unto Others, and Judge Not... And instead delves into the mucky gossip with great gusto and furious piety. I read somewhere that she came out of retirement for this film. How old is she? And WHY is she retiring? I mean, I know she only has a repertoire of 7 facial expressions, but she is really very good at all of them. The Bible Bashers don't often cop a beating of their own, especially in mainstream Hollywood fodder. And I think it is interesting how the Kumbayah mob are really shown to be shallow and judgemental rather that sharing, caring Christian souls. And when it comes to High School Holier Than Thous, I have seen, and I know where the truth truly lies.

The Real Love Interest (rather than all the Red Herring Fake-Shags) that Olive has is Mascot Todd - the delectably-chested (if tiny-nippled) Penn Badgley, also seen being broody and clever in Gossip Girl. And while he is incredibly good looking and pouty, he still hasn't quite shown any depth of talent, other than skin deep. Really, give me John Cusak any day of the decade.

The highlight of the whole film are the slivers of scenes with Olive's parents. Patricia Clarkson and my super-fave tiny bald man, Stanley Tucci are just delicious in the scenes of suburban bliss. They are the kind of parents that don't get on celluloid very often - witty and slightly awkward but not embarrassing. The biggest difference between Olive's folks and mine is that I still can't extract salacious details about my parents youth from them,but Olive's are all about the overshare.

Oh, and the tagline of the film was already in my everyday vernacular - "Let's not and say we did"

Physics in action.

2011-02-01T01:04:00.000-08:00

And I'm an English teacher.

I was never much good at Physics at school. I am ashamed of how little I know about amps and watts and terminal velocity (other than the Wesley Snipes film, which is appauling).

But I seem to recall a little pithy piece of information from the dark recesses of my Physics memory.

It is more difficult to gain momentum, than to keep momentum.

As in Physics, so in life.
This week (and it is only Tuesday, mind) has heard me tootling along in my off-key voice "The first week is the hardest," bastardising Rod Stewart for my own ends. And it is. I know we teachers get great masses of holidays, but I firmly believe they are earned. We work damn hard those weeks that we are on, and we do a job that The Haters wouldn't touch with someone else's tax file number.

And nobody likes that Back To Work feeling, post blissful summer. Not the Boys, whining in their trussed up ties. And not the teachers, with their soon-to-be-faded thong tans on their feet.

Don't get me wrong, the prospect of being back in a classroom is exhilerating. And the notion of My First Ever Drama Class has me excited out of my skin. But as much as I love my job, "It's always better on holidays." Thanks Franz.

Mixed Metaphor Gold: In case of snakes...

2011-01-30T03:47:00.000-08:00

It has been some time since I discussed the shining jewel of language after which I have named this here collection of ramblings.

The Mixed Metaphor is a moment in time when a mistake is made. A malapropism. A tumbling together of at least two juicy, fatted cliches, into a phrase (or indeed paragraph, or more even!) that is so chunky you could carve it.

Today's example made me laugh perhaps with a touch too much gusto...

"in the situation where there is a brown snake, it's every man for his dog"

Both Kinds of Music: The Bushwackers

2011-01-25T14:44:00.000-08:00

When we were kids, Australia Day was brilliant. Before I knew about the genocide of the First Fleet and the invasion of Terra Nullius. Before Triple J's Hottest 100 became the world's biggest music poll, and the rudder that steers the whole hot January day. My parents and brother (because there was only one then) would join forces with a couple of other families from the Northern Beaches. I imagine the parents got boozy, but there was always lots of great food. And dancing. And music. A real life lagerphone. Other home-made booze related instruments, such as the goonbox filled with rice. And a steady soundtrack of Australian bush music. Redgum featured heavily. And The Bushwackers. These memories are young and golden and untainted with self-conciousness. One of the first memories of music I have, like my musical spiritual home.

The Bushwackers are a staple of the West Bubblefuck Both Kinds of Music Festival. This year they celebrated their 40th Anniversary, and have kicked off the year in style. Their Chardonnay Show is a yearly feature of the Festival Program, and it is almost always sold out. Sunday afternoon in the Beer Garden of the Longyard, armed with squirty bottles and stubbie coolers to last the whole day through. It is the Full Stop of the 10 day festival, except a full stop is not nearly flamboyant enough a piece of punctuation to really give this show justice.

They pride themselves on a complete lack of American influence, and are instead more heavily rooted in traditional Irish music. A double bass, a piano accordian, fiddle, bodhran (Irish drum), tin whistle and all manner of other percussiony and guitary kinds of instruments create a wall of upbeat and rollicking sound. They tend to sing about folk heroes, like Ned Kelly, and the best things about being Australian. They do focus on the bushmate cliches, and are very heavy on songs about sheep - and both seem entirely fitting in the lofty wooden hall and beer garden at the Longyard.

The Bushwackers in flight

They are also brilliant showmen. Or show people, really. Dobe Newton, lead singer and random percussionist, is a pretty out there dude. His penchant for the flamboyant suits is always riveting, and this Sunday was no exception. The first outfit was a silver lame shirt with a black and white fresian coat, and his second was a white tuxedo jacket, splattered with enormous and luminous sequened flowers. He had a whinge toward the end of the show that there wasn't another break in the set, because he had another outfit to show off. And his tween-songs banter included a shout out to all the Spotlight members, offering a free solo CD to anyone who presented their membership card at the merch stand - There was a steady stream of middle aged ladies for the next fifteen minutes, collecting the booty to play while they sewed curtains or bedazzled their I Survived West Bubblefuck 2011 tshirts. Dobe is a sweaty man, with a bald pate, but a curtain of hair around his face. He swings his lagerphone with so much gusto, you feel sure it will break with each blasting beat, and the stage and shrapnel of washers and bottletops will rain over all the band and crowd.

The other band members compete for laughs, for limelight, but all hold up in talent. Roger Corbett is the primary songwriter of the band (though arguably their most famous song, "We Are Australian" was penned by Newton), and can swing his guitar too. His son Ben was on the electric guitar, and tucked in the corner on the double bass was Michael Vidale. The long-haired Mark Oats (also playing with The Pigs as I have mentioned before) is a brilliant fiddle player, but his banter leaves a fair bit to be desired.

But the one I love best is the token chick. Clare O'Meara plays the squeeze box, the most complex of all the instruments on the stage. There are keys and buttons and pulling the thing in and out. I really do love a good piano accordian player. When I first saw them a few years ago, she was all corkscrew curls under an enormous top hat, and she didn't stop bouncing along with the music for the whole show - which is about 3 and a half hours long! These days she is a little more sedate - and considering she has been playing for over twenty years, I am thinking that it is forgivable. She took the mic for just one song, the iconic Men at Work tune, "I Come From A Land Downunder" and she was mesmorising. Plus, as Newton said, she is easily the most photogenic in the band. Yes, I have a girl crush!

They actually did play an American cover - in honour of the plastic faced Kenny Rodgers, who was playing in the big shearing shed across the road. And Dobe promised us, his loyal crowd, that it would be the first and last time they would play an American song. And they do "The Gambler a great deal of justice too! There was a steady stream of superstars of the Both Kinds of Music World, including Kasey "Cat in a Bandsaw" Chambers, the very charming Sara Storer and the very boozed Beccy Cole. They did their own stuff, or covers of Bushwackers, or other Australian classics, like John Williams' "Old Man Emu", and brought a different energy to the stage, and to the crowd.

This year to raise money for the QLD Flood appeal, they auctioned OFF THEIR LAGERPHONE!!!! At only $2.50 a ticket, there were a lot of hungry audience members, including most of the members of my tribe. I was delighted, but they were a little disappointed, when my mum's cousin was announced as the winner. Just a warning, Margey, they are plotting to get an invite to your house and pilfer the prize for their own ends. The raffle raised about $2000, incidentally.

Margey, Dobe Newton and her brand new prize!

The Chardonnay Show is a brilliant part of the Festival. It is reportedly named after the very first Sunday performance the band did in 1994. Don Spencer (of Play School and "Don the Kelpie" fame) brought his family to the show on the way back to Sydney, thinking they would stay for one show, and one class of Chardy. But one song was not enough, and one glass was not enough. And nor was one bottle. They shared the wine, and drank the pub dry. It seems a fitting name for the show; a little bit fancy, and a little bit bogan. And a whole lot of fun.

Both Kinds of Music: The Wilson Pickers

2011-01-24T18:32:00.000-08:00

Just before Bob's show, at the West Bubblefuck Hotel, there was another band. Bands are pretty easy to come by during the West Bubblefuck Both Kinds of Music Festival. Outside each shopfront is a busker, in the corner of each room in each pub and club and cafe. But bands with talent, without the American Whine & Twang in their voice, with a little more imagination than trucks and heartbreak in their lyrics... they are a little more tricky to come by.

But we found one. The Wilson Pickers' show sounded great, with harmonised voices, manolin, fiddle, tamborine and that all important swoon-worthy harmonica sound. It was an unticketed event, which means FREE! And they weren't too bad on they eye either. So really, an all round winner.

These guys were great low key listening. Perfect for the first beer of the evening, for a sunset show on a lazy, warm day. They were a little bit like The Eagles, with their 70s throwback fashion and their beardy slash mo looks. Plus, the first song on their album is the beautifully titled "Return to the Land of the Powerful Owl"! How cool is that!?!

Both Kinds of Music: Bob Evans

2011-01-24T05:15:00.000-08:00

Bob Evans, the original Jerk of Attention, came to the West Bubblefuck Festival last year. His real name is Kevin Mitchell, and he was really the lead singer of Jebidiah, the band who wrote the song "Leaving Home" only weeks before me and my classmates actually did just that.

Bob is his Folky moniker, his less whiney voiced, more accoustic strumming, harmonica humming kind of persona. Last year he plomped into town, to the West Bubblefuck Hotel beer garden, sans band. Not much publicity - I don't even remember seeing his name in the program. Just a man with an accoustic guitar on his shoulders and a harmonica perched on a wire around his neck, sipping red wine from a glass, in the baking West Bubblefuck January heat. His easy rhythms and lilting lyrics were an easy Thursday afternoon show. A bit of tapping fingers on the knee, a little bit of singing along with the words to the singles.

This year, Bob was back. With my modest posse of 14 (because my tribe in West Bubblefuck has been growing and expanding, and we're basically taking over the world. Plus Little Red came to visit too!!) we spread out around the table smack bang in the middle of the garden, in front of the stage. Thanks to the B Team!

Apologies for shithouse photo quality. IPhones & booze & twilight & stage lighting aren't friends

Bob looked much the same. The Ramona Flowers hair cut. The checked cowboy shirt, the accoustic and harmonica. But this year he was swigging the red wine from the bottle. He brought a band with him, The Evens, that he reportedly only hooked up with a week ago. They seemed to be still feeling their way a little, but the idiocyncracies made it even sweeter. The Evens joined Evans for about half of the songs in the set. He called up a few special guests, and did some covers as well as a huge chunk of his own stuff. His Like A Version cover of Lily Allen's "Not Fair" was as always priceless, as was his lead in threat to tongue-kiss any homophobes, as this is obviously the worse possible punishment they could imagine.

His relaxed Australian voice is sometimes tainted with a bit of the dreaded American twang, but there is an honesty to his songwriting that manages to cut through that twangy slick. Most of his work seems to be centred on Suburbia. Being stuck in it, leaving it, looking back on it. Suburbia isn't usually the substance of Country Music, but then that is kind of a loose genre nowadays. My fave of his is "Hand Me Downs", a beautiful examination of what it means to be serious, to be responsible, to be making the big decisions, or to be just kicking around in what you always have done, despite the fact that it probably isn't working.

At the end of his set, the wine bottle was drained. It was truly astounding with 750ml of merlot in him, Bob could still manage to sing and play not one but TWO instruments with brilliance. And then he managed to polish off another half a bottle in the encore. Towards the end of the night, the banter became a little sloppy, the set list and back catalogue somewhat exhasteded. At this moment of weakness, the crowd pounced, and demanded a Jebidiah song. And he relented. "Harpoon" is a brilliant moment in Australian songwriting, and I got some goosebumps seeing it played live.

Bob Evans - pronounced best,very quickly, as one word, Bobevans - is really fantastic beer garden summer music. Friends old and new fit well around a table with his music.

Both Kinds of Music: The Pigs

2011-01-19T23:11:00.000-08:00

Tis that time of year again, The West Bubblefuck Both Kinds Of Music Festival. When every square of green (though it is usually brown) in town is taken up with a tent, and every awning of the main street has a wailing busker turned up almost-illegally loud. Tales of wives leaving, trucks breaking down, and how happy sheeee iiiiiis tooooo fiiiiiiiind hiiiiiiim, sung to twanging guitar.

But it is not all the sounds of a cat being put through a band saw. Festival time for some (including Sparky and his pals) is The Best Time Of Year. On the first Friday of each January, the AGM is held, and the Official Agenda (wow, lots of Capitalisation in this post??!?) is drawn up. This year, it has been Officially Printed on the Official Stubbie Coolers. And it is filled with some true gems (including the Red One, coming in on Friday). A variety of styles is sought. Some new artists, vying for the esteemed title of the Festival Find. And there are some Compulsory Shows to attend - Festival Faves.

Wednesday night was my first experience of the very special show - The Pigs. These boys have the THICKEST dodgy southern US accents you've ever heard. They have a repetoir of original tunes such as "Don't dump your lover on the phone" with its brilliant opening lyrics of "I am standing in the shadow of a 40 foot merino, while you were over there sipping on your cappucino", as well as some fantastic countryfied covers - turns out there are a number of genres that work in a country fashion, especially disco ("ABC" for example, and "Staying Alive") and R&B (specifically "Ignition" - it is the references to "sipping on coke & rum" that really ease it perfectly into the West Bubblefuck scene).

These guys are bags of fun, with a brilliantly energetic show. It is near impossible not to dance - Sparky cut the rug in a spectacular fashion! With guest bandmembers, OOPS! I mean cousins - Montz Matzumoto (a banjo player of the highest order) and Mark Oats (of the legendary folk band, The Bushwackers). The Committee (as I like to call those friends that take The Festival seriously) tried to hide the real identities of the cousins from me - Stretch, T-Bone & Billy-Bob aren't really thier names! They thought it really disappointing that Billy-Bob is really named Glen, and really comes from Dubbo. But I think they underestimate my ability to suspend my disbelief for the moment of performative magic.

The recordings I have heard have not nearly done these boys justice. The live show is just what country music should be - a little bit wrong, a lot of dancing, and not many people taking themselves too seriously.

The Real Resolutions

2011-01-18T17:08:00.000-08:00

As opposed to my Reading Resolutions, discussed here.

Each new year, I try to nail down 5 promises to myself to make my life better. Five, because if I accomplish 3 then I am going pretty well. The 5 resolutions need to be realistic, achievable, quantifyable and positive. I also try to have them nailed down by the 5th of Jan, but I am running a little behind schedule.

So here goes:

1. Do not buy any more shoes in 2011. The year '11 may be the year of the legs, according to bingo, but my collection of footwear is vast and varied. Especially when it comes to red mary-janes. So I promise myself, and my wallet, and the corner of my bedroom where the shoes get chucked (and all the other corners where they invariably end up) that I will not NOT purchase a new pair - unless one of the Essentials On High Rotation gets broken and needs replacing. This means no browsing in shoe shops, no gravitational pull to the shoe section of department stores. No shoes in 2011.

2. Write 52 blog entries for 2011. An average of 1 a week. Last year, being the first year of Mum to 110 meant that This Here Record Of Ramblings was somewhat ignored, especially towards the end of the year. And writing feels good. Not just teaching people about writing, but clarifying my own opinions into the crystal clarity of words on a screen. Edging out my own little dialogue with the e-ther. Plus, as KidsTheseDays put it, it is good for a teacher to be a practitioner - to practise what I am preaching. Of course, this year I am already off to a good start, and holiday times should help my averages!

3. Sweat an average of 3 times a week. Not really for weight loss, more because my brain, my body and my emotions are always much more rational when getting a regular sweat on. Gym, swim, bball with The Flames. I reckon I can get 3 times a week of getting my heart rate up to sweating.

4. Get my spots checked. This should only take a moment, or half an hour at max, but checking that my skin is cancer free, for someone as dotty as me, is actually really important. I just have to face my boy-like fear of the medical potential for Nasty Truth and get someone to examine my skin.

5. $100 a week in savings. Living at The Boy Factory should allow me to save more cash than I do. So it is time to make a concerted effort. I set up a savings account last year, and it is really time for me to use it.

I will have to try to do an assessment of progress throughout the year, but now it has been written, it cannot be escaped! The pressure of the internet compels me to try!

A total tool. In the best way.

2011-01-17T22:01:00.000-08:00

Aussie television hasn't really fulfilled its potential. There have been some total gems, with brilliant scripts, great performances and brilliant production - Love My Way for instance. There is also a complete river of shite, crime based fear mongering shows that discourage promiscuity and leaving front doors unlocked. I mean, just how many crimes needed to happen in that small town of Blue Heelers before the Federal Police took over??

But 2010 brought a doozy. A really brilliant piece of Australian television that seemed to only be watched by middle aged, middle class folk who watch the ABC. Which is truly a tragedy.

Rake was only 8 episodes long, and each episode was heaving with witty dialogue and hilarious situations of varying levels of believability. Cleaver Green is a defence barrister in Sydney, and he is a riddled with vices as his clients. He gambles, he shags, he boozes, he crams lots of white powder up his nose and he never pays his taxes. He is completely lacking in political correctness, which is simultaneously confronting and hysterical. He is an entirely despicable but ultimately likable human - a rogue indeed. And I can think of no-one better to pull this off than Richard Roxburgh, the generally overlooked powerhouse of the Australian acting scene. I have seen him on-stage at a few Belvior productions, and he is pretty darn incredible.

Eight episodes is a pretty perfect number - leaving the audience wanting much much more. Each episode deals with another unlikely court case, with a parade of Class A Aussie actors. Hugo Weaving as a famous politician with a taste for human flesh, Sam Neill (I know he is really a Kiwi, but he has been here for so long!) as a highly respected doctor with some interesting sexual appetites. Lisa McCune as a ferocious MILF with a tape recorder, hell bent on getting her daughter out of gaol. Matt Day is brilliant as Harry Sorry David Potter, a prosecuting tax lawyer, Cleave's arch nemesis.

One of the creators, Charles Waterstreet, is a practising barrister, and anecdotal reports (from people who went to school with him, that I currently work with) suggest that his is indeed the wild child that Cleave is based on. And given the richness of the script, it is pretty plain that this is planted somewhere in reality.

This is a truly intelligent program, with lots of really sexy shots of Sydney, reminiscent of how New York is shown in SATC and London is shown in Sherlock. Makes me feel like I miss the Big Smoke just a little bit more.

A second season would be so so good. There have been rumours to that effect...The budget of Australian drama, particularly the ABC has taken a beating over the last few decades, and so I am not holding my breath. But hopefully I won't be working on the night that it is shown!

Watch this show. Sit quietly and listen carefully because the pace of the pithy dialogue is thick and fast and needs close attention. You may need to rewind and rewatch some scenes, as they may not be heard over the violent giggles. Or maybe that's just me.

Lung capacity

2011-01-16T18:42:00.000-08:00

What does one do on a summer holiday when faced with lots of rain and/or contaminated ocean water?

Read.

Knock over a few Reading Resolutions.

Breath by Tim Winton seems an incredibly fitting book as a supplement for a craving for a dip in the sea. Sitting on the grass atop the small dune behind the beach, with almost every fibre of my being screeching at me to ditch the sarong and dive under the waves. All except my delicate ear drum that was squeaking at me to remember 2 summers ago, with the perforated ear drum, the searing pain and the complete lack of swim time that followed. A quick google search showed that flood waters and even heavy rains bring down untreated sewage, chemical run off and the juices from animal carcasses. Reading this worked as a way to convince all the other fibres that my ear, as usual, was right.

So I settled for reading about the joys and the beauty of sliding down the face of a wave instead.

Winton seems to have the ability to discuss that which usually cannot be communicated - the inner workings of the mind of a man who is incapable of emotional articulation. I am not saying that all blokes are emotional retards, or that every single guy is mute when it comes to discussing, nay even identifying an emotion when they feel one. But lots of the boys I know are. And I know a fairly large number of males, working at The Boy Factory. In his Lockie Leonard stories, the protagonist is a teenager, discovering self-awareness and what it means to be human, male, a son, a brother, a boyfriend, a friend.

In Breath, the central character is going through the same thing. But a la The Wonder Years, we see it through his adult eyes. Told largely through flashback, mostly (but not entirely) linear in structure, we see why this middle aged paramedic is so cynical, so emotionally cut off, and yet so knowing. And a la Freud, the reasons lie in his childhood, and the formative years of his adolescent friendships.

Pikelet is falling in love for the very first time, and it is with the ocean. His mentor, the slightly dinted Sando, and his best friend, the more than slightly unhinged Loonie surf enormous waves, seek the next thrill, and approach surfing as though it is an addiction, a science, an art and a way of life. And then humanity gets in the way of it all.

My mother (who ALWAYS loves Winton) didn't like this book all that much. A bit too heavy on the adrenaline for a worry-junkie like her. Seeking out the next thrill, the next way to push ones' self to the edge, to find something within ones's self that is Extraordinary, rather than just being satisfied with the mundane things that life brings... this is the motivations behind all of the characters in the book. And I don't know that she is all that comfortable with that notion. But I get it.

As usual, Winton's poetics are rich and varied, and his ability to craft the tension is sublime. He can craft a moment on the top of a wave, mere hairs of a second, into half a page of breathless delight. The characters of this novel dive and swim and auto-asphixiate, and the reader does it with them. If a book can make you change something as innate and essential as your pattern of breathing, then it must be some pretty powerful writing.

Wanted: One ark. Reasonable condition.

2011-01-16T18:21:00.000-08:00

A road trip to the coast, summer with my brother. Beach, booze, a bit of art and music, but mostly catching up with friends flung northward. Sounds like fun, eh?

In reality, the road trip was a little more eventful than relaxing. Less beach time, and more avoiding the rising flood waters. Which the media is saying is "the biggest natural disaster to ever hit Australia", and I am sure if you count the devastation in Victoria (where flood meters have been swallowed by the torrent), New South Wales, Tasmania and South Australia, it is probably true. But they do tend to stretch that thing called truth, now and again, don't they?

Escaping Brisbane before it was totally inundated was a wise move. Waiting for the insanity of lunatics evacuating early was also fairly well thought out - we drove in fairly dry conditions, with near empty roads, to the safety of the Gold Coast. But after we got out of Dodge, the flood waters across the nation's rivers continued to follow us. We took a 4 hour detour to travel 65ks around Grafton to Woopi.

Grafton, the Clarence River

The rivers we crossed were swollen and ragey, pregnant with the promise of angry, anarchic watery children of chaos.

Woolgoolga and her flood stained beach

The beaches we planned to swim at were stained unpleasantly with untreated sewage and chemicals that wanted nothing more than to inflict me with another summer ear infection.

But listen to me whinging while the multitudes of flood refugees from Brisbane, Grafton, the Lockyer Valley and northern Victoria have lost all their worldly possessions. I know my plans had to be tweaked a little, but my diatribe is knowing - I have sweet FA to complain about.

Most of the minutes of the last week on television have been saturated by tear stained faces, and all-too-eager reporters trying to evoke extreme emotions, prodding them sharply with microphones until they bleed the required tears. Lives have been lost, and more are still missing, a week later, and it is devastating what the floods have done to homes and businesses. But the overwhelming response from most of the victims of the journos is hope, and relief that things aren't as bad as they thought they would be, and so much joy at the generosity of helpful strangers with the cleaning and the sweeping.

It has got me to thinking, and these thoughts were somewhat clarified by the oh-so-articulate John Birmingham in the SMH. He wrote a beautifully bitter piece about the fact that this country we live in continues to remind us that we're not welcome. that it isn't Ours to control, not really fit for human habitation. This continent continues to push back, against our riverside properties, and our constructions that don't seem to hold up to the winds or the flames, the deluges of water or the long stretches of time without it. The sheer arrogance of "It Won't Happen To Me", the reason behind so many teenage driving deaths, the reason behind people catching STIs, is the same reasoning behind riverside properties being overtaken by Mother Nature. Yes, it happened to that property in 1974. Why wouldn't it happen again?

The day the flood warnings came to Brisbane, Tuesday, the day after the horrors of Toowomba and the Lockyer Valley, I tried to go to a cafe in Newstead. And I was told, with very little sugar coating in the tone of her voice, that the cafe was shut, in preparation for the rising flood waters. I scoffed.

Rising flood waters in Brisbane. At about 4.6m

Sandbagging in action

Then the waters rose. And the city evacuated (not officially, mind you. Just all of the office managers said "if you want to get home, you'd better leave now). And the sandbags began to appear, as if from nowhere. At times it was adventurous. We stocked up on booze and frozen pizza, rolls of toilet paper and candles. Then the reality of no power and no plumbing hit home. So my bro and me - we hit the road.

I too am of that same brand of arrogance that expects it Not To Happen To Me. I thought it all a media beat up. Scare mongering in the vein of post-tsunami a few years ago. And I have had to eat my words most humbly.

I haven't donated to the flood appeal yet (aside from a few gold coins rattled into buckets and tip jars here and there). Mostly because I am waiting for pay-day on Wednesday, because it needs to be a significant donation.

Give lots. Give to Queenslanders with their new-found kick arse premier Anna Bligh. Give to New South Welshpeeps, with their divided and isolated towns. Give to Victorians, who really deserve a break. Give to Government appeals QLD: http://www.qld.gov.au/floods/donate.html. Donate to charities http://www.vinnies.org.au/qldfloodappeal, to animal shelters, to anyone who will do good with the cash.

Side note:
In times of floods, good road trip listening material can be found in Eddie Izzard's Glorious. Noah has a Sean Connery voice.

The Girl With The International Bestseller

2011-01-16T17:08:00.000-08:00

Author's note:
Hey-zeus! This has been sitting in the unpublished post pile for FAR too long. Time to get this puppy outta here!

Have you read The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo?
Did you love it and rave about it to everyone you knew?
Or did you think (like me) that it was just a little bit poo?

I don't know many people who didn't love this book. I heard it called "Thrilling" and "Exciting" and "Really different". The buzz/spin surrounding this book was epic. The two pages of call-outs from reviews from around the world are falling over themsleves with repetitive praise about how spectacular this novel is.

In my post reading websearch, I of course stumbled across the review from the so so fabulous First Tuesday Book Club . And on there was 2 blindingly bedazzled reviews. Jennifer Byrne said she thought it was "terrific". Jason Steger said he thought it was a "great read" and "completely absorbing". And their opinions seemed to reflect the wider reading community.

Fortunately there were three wise souls on the panel that week. Marieke Hardy (bless her red-lipped soul! total girl crush!!) was pretty ambivalent about the book, though I totally disagree with her assessment of it being "efficient" and with her experience of being "involved the whole way" through reading.

Wendy Harmer, whom I very rarely agree with, called the book a blunt instrument, and I completely concur that the cliche riddled and clunky phrasing of the book was very off-putting. She cited "she ran away as fast as her legs could carry her" as one such example of groan-worthy narration. She and Peter Corris (a crime writer of more consise tales) both mentioned the vast tracts of exposition, which I found frustrating and useless.

The basic outline of the story is still pretty convaluted. A shamed journo takes a job from a rich dude to simultaneously write his family bio and solve a cold case. He is assisted by a tattood waif hacker with aspergers and a tiny temper. There is a whole lot of corporate crime stuff that I couldn't give a rats about. there is an intriguing rich family of inbred Nazis that I didn't find at all endearing. And the journo, Blomkvist, can't seem to keep it in his trousers and seems to shag anything. Who sets off on multiple missions to uncover the truth about just about everything.

One friend of mine (not Harmer's) said that she liked the fact that it wasn't totally action packed. That it was undulating in tension, and not at constant break neck speed. A refreshing kind of thrillier. I think that is bollocks. If it is NOT thrilling, then it can hardly be called a thriller right? I mean, huge tracts of description of inconequential details are a sure fire way to slow down break neck tension. And I'm sure if I was after a novel of shopping lists of how many pairs of warm socks one dude bought, I would look in the Tedious as Hell section of the bookshop to find it.

The character of Lisbeth Salander - who does have an awsome name, by the way - is intriguing. But by no means three dimonsional. Something of a male fantasy goth style character. Pierced. Monosyllabic. High sexual appetite. And a tendency for violence. But hardly empowered, as some readers suggest. And sure she is likable, and sure she is intruiging. She does make you want to know what happens to her, but then so does the ultra-insipid Bella Swan (I nearly dry retched just typing her name). I have already got a long list of arse kicking female characters in my BFFs of Pop Culture. Buffy, Lyra Belaqua, CJ, Katniss, Viola, Liz Lemon, Eliza Bennet... Lisbeth Salander doesn't really measure up to this high standard. The Times UK agrees with me here, stating she "isn’t so much a character as a revenge fantasy come to life, powering her way through the novel like the heroine of a computer game"

I realise this book is English as a Second Language - which might explain why the figurative language is so cliched and clunky. But that is no excuse for tedious narration and roughly hewn stereotyped charcters. Some ESL books are brilliant in translation. Bernhard Schlick's The Reader for example. Patrick Suskind's Perfume, classics like Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (also a brilliant name - and this one comes directly to mind as I am reading it at the moment.) This ESL novel is not one of those.

And yes, in case you were wondering, I have read the second volume The Girl who played with fire. In it, the oh-so-empowered female protagonist gets breast implants. And when I finished that, I read the third one. Finishing these books was more of a relief than anything else. I can tick that off and give these enormous tomes away to someone who might want them more than me. On Amazon.com, the populist vote is 7:1 positive to negative, so I am outvoted there. But Alex Berenson of the NY Times agrees that the "beginning is dull, the end is unbelievable and dull, the characters are so roughly drawn they are more shadows of stock characters than fully fleshed out humans, and the sexual polotics is all about men who hate women. incidentally, the original swqedish title of the book". The popularity of this series may entirely be about the fact that Laarson is now dead - the Van Gogh approach to the popularity of art.

And no, in case you were wondering, I haven't seen the film.

This book is good for a long plane journey, a lazy summer escape from the maddening Christmas crowds or a long commute to work. As a piece of fiction, in the tomes of the classics, it will not arrive. Or at least it shouldn't.

Road Trippin' to The Wet Country

2011-01-08T14:57:00.001-08:00

So far road tripping with my bro is going gangbusters. Despite the almost total lack of sunshine. There has been more puns and accents than you could possibly hope for. There has been stunning views of greenery. There has been caffeine in abundance.

And there has been a stowaway. We named him Cody. It seemed to be appropriate. A little frog from West Bubblefuck that just wanted to get away from it all. In the boot of my car

2010 - The year that was

2011-01-03T21:07:00.000-08:00

This has been a pretty roller-coaster kind of year. In the style of ACA, lets have a look, shall we?

January - 2 weddings in the sun, and a few weeks in Bondi. My relationship with Sparky was just new, and exciting and full of promise. The Festival, otherwise known as the West Bubblefuck Country Music Festival was full of dancefloor fun, and far too many bottles of Pure Blonde to be healthy. The Basics, Bob Evans and The Bushwhackers were highlights. The lack of school for the month was also a sparkling gem. Won the Guess the Hottest 100 comp at Sparky's Hottest 100 party. Competitive? Moi?

February - Possibly worked the hardest in this month. New Year 7s asking fifteen bajillion questions, and constant supervision, distraction and conversation for Boys away from Home, finding their feet at The Factory. Got incredibly sick in Week 4, followed by year 7 camp in Week 5. Tried to compete in Oscarsfest, but failed rather dismally (still blaming West Bubblefuck cinema for being so crap). Joined a basketball team, The Flames, in C grade of the West Bubblefuck Basketball comp, kind of made me feel like a local?

March - Slightly less manic than the first half of the term. Got my PERMANENT JOB!! Feeling very validated and grown up, and a little bit like all my hard work had paid off. Bought my couch, my first piece of proper real grown up furniture. Took an hour and a half for the delivery guys to get it into my lounge room. Neglected to tell them that I had negotiated for free delivery... The start of my beloved Couch Time. Cruised on in to Easter. The start of football try outs, the debating team kick off - or the Boy Factory First IV. Won most of the games with The Flames.

April - Turned 30. Felt exceptionally good about it. All grown up (new permanent job), all loved up, and all liquored up. Fantastic party at The Coast House, with a dozen or so of my closest friends converging for a BBQ and prawns, and a few frosty beverages. The night before party of curry, carrot cake and 30 year old port was also a blast. Sprained my ankle with The Flames - changed direction without telling my feet I was going to do so. Trip 1 to Melbourne for The Comedy Festival, slightly more hobbly than wandery due to ankle injury.

May - Slightly swamped at The Factory again. So much so that I have little memory of May at all. A weekend in Sydney. More basketball, more Sparky time, more Couchtime. The Mighty U14s kicked into gear and started playing like a team of teammates, which is just what a Supercoach wants. Games of local rugby in the freezing cold

June - The World Cup, and the ensuing sleep deprivation that goes along with it. A lot of bandwagon jumpers to the round ball game, and overnight experts in team configeration. Henry broke down in the drive thru of Oporto. The Flames won the C grade basketball grand final, but I damaged my rotator cuff in the semis.

July - More delicious school holidays. A trip to Sydney to celebrate the success/birthday/bon voyage of good friends. Read the Chaos Walking trilogy, and excellent book decision. Became addicted to MasterChef, despite my own desire not to. The Flames were promoted to B Grade, but I wasn't playing due to my body falling apart. More football Supercoaching, more rugby games.

August - Got to see my favourite Shakespeare play performed by my favourite Shakespeare company playing at the West Bubblefuck theatre - and love it. Got flooded in at The Boy Factory as the drought of the past 10 years decided to break with great vengance. More football. Started a list of 100 things that make me smile. Finished reading the Hunger Games trilogy, and wished it was more than 3 books, a la Douglas Adams.

September - Supervised 2 dances in one week. No-one busted drinking on my watch. Saw my cousin get married, and nearly cried making a speech. Finished writing the list of 100 things that make me smile (100 is a big number! It took some time!). Got to hang out with The B team. Made a return to the court with The Flames, but tentatively - fitness an issue, and plagued by injuries. Mighty U14s narrowly lost GF, 1-0. A sad but proud Supercoach, here. Powderfinger, superb Aussie band, started their farewell tour, including a brilliant night in West Bubblefuck, despite what the cynical locals say. Brought to tears by Bernard and the boys. Drowned a little in report writing. End of Term 3 insanity with Year 12, including the Annual Staff v Students Soccer Match and the Formal. Big month.

October - Marking marking marking of Year 10 trial exams. Sheesh. Almost total holiday wastage. Brilliant few days for Trip 2 to Melbourne with Little Red, with the excuse of seeing Tim Burton's exhibition at the ACMI. 80s dress up party for by boss' 40th. I looked AWESOME as Dana from Ghostbusters. Year 11 Leadership Camp. More report writing.

November - Not one single blogpost. Drowning in report writing. HP7 came out. Road trip with The O Team to see the Ultimate Powderfinger concert in Brisbane. Informed that I would FINALLY be teaching a DRAMA CLASS in '11, tres excitement. Quick trip to Sydney under the guise of learning to be an English teacher. Also a brilliant excuse for tax deductable flights to a Mad Men party - the birthdays of several excellent friends. Took Year 7 camping - like PROPER camping, in tents and stuff - by the side of the river.

December - River we were camping beside flooded, camp moved at midnight on day 2 and evacuated on day 3. High stress situation. Grandfather died. Took year 7 on tour to Dubbo, which was flooded. Sparky's mum died. Got close enough to a giraffe to touch it (but didn't because it was against the rules) but patted a wombat. Came home from Dubbo early due to flooding/weather. Fardy's funeral. Family friend died. Sparky's mum's funeral. Wagged presentation day. Family friend's funeral. One year anniversary understandibly ignored/forgotten. Well earned holidays. Caught up with friends who flitted home from OS, including engagement party. Enormous Christmas with Paternal Tribe. New Year's Eve long weekend with burgeoning Chosen West Bubblefuck Tribe.

And now I am here.

Reading Resolutions

2011-01-03T19:27:00.000-08:00

PottyMouthMama doesn't do resolutions. She does habits.

I do Resolutions. I usually set mysefl 5 every year, so that if I complete 3, then I am going well. They need to be attainable and quantifiable. And they need to measurably improve my life.

But this post is not about those 5 Resolutions (mostly because I haven't nailed them all down yet.)

The Top Ten Tuesday from The Broke & The Bookish is about the books you are wanting to read in 2011. And I have re-decided that I don't go in for Top Tens... So cliched. But I do like a Top Six. And not out of laziness, because I can't be arsed completing the Ten. Mostly because I am too indecisive to complete a Top Five. So here is the Top Six Books I Want To Read In 2011. In no particular order.

1. The Road - Cormack McCarthy
I have tried to read this a few times. It is a truly evocative book, and I haven't really got more than a quarter into it, because I find it so grim, that it is difficult to go on. I think I need to infuse myself with the grit and determination of the characters in order to forge ahead.

2. The Hound of the Baskervilles - Arthur Conan Doyle
As I have hinted at, my new-found love affair with the antisocial detective and his amiable assistant is blossoming nicely, thank you very much. Long may it continue.

3. Breath - Tim Winton
This blue book has nestled untouched on my shelf since Easter last year. I just know I am going to get lost in his rich imagery, and I've no idea why it has been postponed so long.

4. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
My very favourite Glaswegian told me that this is a staple text for studying in Scottish schools. He told me I would really enjoy it, and he has rarely set me on the wrong path before! Again, sitting on my shelf, sneering at my lack of time and commitment to reading, shameful for an English teacher.

5. Antigone - Sophocles
I actually have to teach this to my first ever Year 11 Advanced English class in Term 1, so I really need to get a wriggle on. I have seen a production of it, but through the hazy memories of university, I wouldn't be confident in teaching it to teenage boys.

6. A Monster Calls - Patrick Ness
I know it isn't going to be The Chaos Walking series. But I want to sink my teeth into some more Nessness! I haven't seen the book yet (it is slated for release later this year) and I haven't read any press, but I want I want I want!

Echo Point?

2011-01-03T18:33:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I link to this blog on my stalkbook page. Sometimes I link to it from my twitter. Occasionally I will include the longwinded address as my own personal URL. Mostly to increase traffic to this site.

But I don't really know why I am writing it. Writing this blog (as can be seen in the list of how many entries have been made in the last 6 months) often gets relegated if I am too busy or too brain-fried to find the words. There are umpteen posts written in my brain about books I have read, and films I have seen, and records I have heard. But getting the fingers to do the tapping before my witty and insightful commentary has evaporated from my brainbox is a dilemma I have been trying to deal with.

And I don't really know who I have got reading it, and whether or not I am writing it to be read, or writing it to see my own words in pixels on the screen, some kind of narcissistic public navel gazing. But I do like to think that there is someone out there reading my whimsy.

So if you do read here occasionally, feel free to share your opinion of my own unsolicited opinion. Feel free to tell me that I am way off the mark in my appraisal of all things Sherlock, or overthinking Harry Potter way too much. Or that my fixation with Mr Darcy and his recurrence in all modern pop culture is purely in my imagination. Or maybe you DO agree that all television, cinema, literature and trash needs to be pulled apart, and my assertions are right on the money? I guess I am looking for an answer to all of this opinion that I am hurling into the gorge of cyber-space, rather than just getting a hollow echo of my own words bouncing back at me.

Here endeth the self-flogging.

The Penultimate Potter

2011-01-03T18:17:00.000-08:00

I've been to see the latest HP flick twice now. Once in a super-overcrowded theatre space with uncomfortable seats and highly annoying audience members, like the small child who keeps asking her father questions, and the father that keeps answering his small child's questions, and the completely daft woman who keeps exclaiming the obvious like "Oh, so he has it!" in a less than hushed voice. And once with the B-Team, in gold-class seats at the West Bubblefuck cinema (who in a long string of cinema-based stuff ups, tried really hard to stuff up our tickets, but we didn't let them).

And I thouroughly enjoyed both viewings.

There are those that say that splitting the last story into two parts is a money grabbing attempt by the studio to strangle some more cash from the addicted masses. There have been some that say that this film is far too long and drawn out, with too many longing looks and slow motion pans of scenery.

To these criticisms, I say "Pah!"

The last book, The Deathly Hallows is fast paced and rich story, but it is incredibly long. And a great deal of that action is actually bound up in frustrating inaction, in planning, decoding mysteries and trying to figure out ways to bring down the great magical tyrant of Lord Voldemort. And our heroes, Harry, Hermione and Ron are on a quest, and the baddies aren't the only demons they have to battle - they also have to deal with their own self-doubts, mistrust of each other and keeping up the motivation to continue. And I think this is why some deranged fools think the film is drawn out - we're not just dealing with the wham-bam-thankyou mam action flick. These critics are suffereing the same frustrations that Ron feels with Harry's lack of understanding of his difficult mission. So I am going to say that this misunderstanding by some douches is actually indicative of the successes of the film.

The whole concept of The Guerillas vs The Tyrant is a well trodden path, in film, books and real-life history. And it is this idea that makes Deathly Hallows so good. The concept of prejudice and power is woven through the tale of Voldemort's rise to power, reflecting the idea that "Might is Right" (also appearing smeared across the windscreen of a redneck ute in enormous slime green letters, seen on the main street of Port Mac - a nauseating sight). This kind of mentality has lead to the success of dozens of tyranical autocracies. Fear, violence and the threat of death is a powerful tool. Ask Poland. Ask Kim Jong Il. Ask Joseph Stalin. The parallels between Hitler's Third Reich and the reign of Voldemort and the Death Eater's are clearly drawn in this film. Down to the beautiful-if-morbidly-disturbing art deco design of the anti-muggle propaganda. The message in this is clear - the power of the mighty is not righteous, and should not be idly watched by the fearful and the meek.

But speaking of the beautiful, this is a stunningly crafted film. Yates has found all of the most gorgeous locations in Great Britain, and our heroes apparate between and across them. Frosted forests, and chalky cliffs, sweeping moors and deep lochs. Breathtaking scenery plays another character in this, the 7th film, as Harry and his buddies break free of the confines of Hogwarts to really explore the world, testing its limitations and their own. (Plus the sneaky shots of Picadilly and Shaftsbury Ave gave me that London Nostalgia that I have discussed before.)

Stunning too is the animated sequence in the middle of the film, telling a Potter-verse fairy tale. It is done in the style of shadow puppetry (and I am ALWAYS going to love some good puppetry), with a Middle Eastern flavour. Directed by Ben Hibon, this section is easily a highlight of the film, and is a highly effective method of exposition/intertextuality. Hermione narrates the story, voice over style, as the shadows meld and twist and flesh out the tale. It is sharp-intake-of-breath kind of cinema. Apparently, Hibon is a named starter for a new Peter Pan feature, and I am intrigued as to what he will do with it.

Also beautiful are the effects, and some of the performances. But we are playing with some of the greatest actors Britain has ever produced. Bill Nighy appears for far too brief a time - though his accent is confused, a little. Alan Rickman is as always spectacular, but again, doesn't get much screen time. Rhys Ifans is new to the franchise, and he embodies Xenophilia Lovegood (gotta love nominative determinism!) with empathy, if perhaps a little too much shouting. As ever, Ralph Feinnes is noselessly brilliant, acting his way around a complete olfactory deficiency.

Of the three main youngsters, there is still some clunkiness. I think a drinking game incorporating the jaw-clenches of Daniel Radcliff, the eye-brow-wiggles of Emma Watson and the exaggerated-gulps of Rupert Grint would be a rollicking good time, but we would all be plastered by the end of the first act. I think Grint has developed into the most mature of the performers. Radcliff and Watson are still a bit reliant on shouting and stomping to convey their emotion. And I think by the time they are 17, the hormonal angst is generally all inverted (based on real life experience) especially for thinky types like these. And sure, I might be slightly biased towards Grint because he is an adorable, funny ranga (it is no secret that I have a tinge of a twinge for a ginge) who has filled out nicely. Hmmm. Oops, got distracted a little...

There are still some great gaping plot holes, old ones from previous films and new ones created. Some have been filled with less than convincing plot-gravel - the introduction of Bill Weasley for the first time? Clunky much?? And there are others that I am interested to see how they are dealt with. Regarding Lupin and Tonks, and their glossed over announcement from the first scenes. And Lilly Potter has been overlooked again.

If you haven't seen the earlier films, never read the books, and generally couldn't give a snot-flavoured bean about Harry Potter, then don't bother with Deathly Hallows. You will be confused and befuddled, and may need to be oblivated if you are to go on with your life. But true believers should love it. And we can't wait for the next one - only til July this year!

Sherlock is my Holmes boy

2010-12-30T19:05:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I started devouring Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock short stories. Despite the fact that earlier I said it wasn't really my bag. I really enjoyed the kickarse Downey Jr-Ritchie version, and so when the BBC released 3 feature length episodes of Sherlock set in modern times, my interest was piqued.

And it is FANTASTIC. As other reviewers have noted, there is a total dirth of sleuths in modern pop culture. A CSI and NCIS for every city. NYPD and L&A: SVU and CI and all manner of other crime fighting acronyms that show the super brainy and logical detectives hunting out the bad guys and knocking them down. And so this version of Mr Holmes and Dr Watson needs to bring the best game it can. "And the game is on"

Created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gattiss, the Beeb has brought witty and intriguing crime television to life. Conan Doyle's details are brought to life in modern London, with all the trappings of a technological society to aid his brilliant powers of deduction (or induction, if you want to be a pedant about it) - text messaging, smart phones. The original Holmes tale A Study in Scarlet has been tweaked for Ep 1 as "A study in pink". Instead of a pipe, there is nicotine patches. Instead of horse drawn handsome cabs, it is black cabs. And Holmes has the wonders of modern refridgeration for his severed heads and other experiments. Watson doesn't keep a journal, he is a blogger (bless his soul) - and he blogs about his adventures with his new flatmate. The vibe of Conan Doyle's original stories is by no means destroyed in this new one - just tweaked to make it fit in the modern world. Guy Ritchie kind of messed with the vibe a little bit - it was less of a scuffle and more of a full blown action bonanza. Moffat and Gattiss have brought the scuffle back to the sleuth work.

And should there be any doubt as to the quality of the show if Moffat is behind it? He is credited as the Man Who Saved Dr Who. He was also the gendudeius behind the highly addictive Jekyll from a few years ago. He is responsible for the much loved Press Gang. But most importantly, he is the comedy genius behind the oh-so-brilliant Coupling - one of the best written sitcoms of all time, witty and insightful commentary on the difficulties of negotiating relationships and friendships across the great divide of Gender. But I think that is a-whole-nother blogpost. Perhaps it deserves a rewatch...? The point is that Moffat is no stranger to brilliant tele, and Sherlock is no exception.

The principal performers also bring a touch of the brilliant. Bendedict Cumberbatch not only has a tasty and chunky name, he also inhabits this oft-performed role to perfection. He is simultaneously prickly and endearing. He captures the Asperger's tendencies, and has a chilliness to his stare (last seen in Atonement) that hints at the enromity of the calculations of his brain, and the lack of emotion behind them. Yet another emotional retard/amputee? Martin Freeman has comic timing by the bucket load. His every-man face, made famous and endearing in The Office (the original and the best, UK of course) and Love Actually. He brings a little more internal turmoil to Dr Watson - war vet from Afganistan with PTSD. He is more emotionally engaged in the cases than the world's only Consulting Detective, but his empathy forces Holmes to view events through different lenses. Freeman isn't just playing the sad clown or the awkward lover, and is showing a greater depth in his characterisation.

But I think my favourite character is not Holmes. Or Watson. Or Scotland Yard detective Lestrade.

It is the city of London. Gatiss, in the geeky making-of special features doco, says that they were trying to fetishise the streets of Modern London in the way the traditional interpretations of Victorian London are shown, with the fog, and the cobbles, and the handsome cabs. And it works!! I mean, it doesn't take much for me to swoon at shots of London, and I was especially treated with glimpses of the South Bank and Waterloo Bridge - which has been redubbed the Pinch Me Bridge (as in 'Pinch me, I'm in London, and from this bridge I can see pretty much all of the cliched sites of the city!). From his famous base on Baker Street, Sherlock and his sidekick flit all about the fantastic city. Chinatown, Battersea, Hungerford footbridge, the Gherkin... The beautiful cinematography is almost enough for me to chuck in my job and hightail it all the way to Londres for good.

But three episodes is not nearly enough. Moffat has hinted that there are current negotiations for timing and format for further episodes. Crossing all of my fingers!

Literary BFFs

2010-12-30T05:59:00.000-08:00

In a perfect world, where the people on the pages are flesh and blood, I would put so many into my contacts on my phone, friend so many on facebook and drink copious amounts of coffee with them all. But if I had to boil it down to just 10 besties from the world of fiction, as mandated over at The Broke & The Bookish the list would look a little something like this...

1. Lyra Belaqua - His Dark Materials (Philip Pullman).
Completely massacred in the really horrific film version, this chick is so awesome. Impulsive and inquisitive and generally arse kicking across multiple dimensions. I guess if I got to be real life friends with her I would also get to hang out with Pantalaimon too, her much more sensible but equally awesome daemon companion. If you haven't read these books, get your arse into gear.

2. Bridget Jones - Bridget Jones' Diary (Helen Fielding)
Sure she is completely neurotic, sure she has some social retardations and some serious hang ups about her body image. But I love the way she finds herself drowning in self-analysis - just like me and my real-life friends do. Three pages in to this book, I have already taken on her vertnacular and internation.

3. Eliza Bennett - Pride & Prejudice (Jane Austen) and Pride & Prejudice & Zombies (Seth Graeme-Smith)
Lizzie B appears quite a bit in the lists from the site. She is honest and flawed and three dimensional and logical and friendly and not the shrinking violet leading lady of most classic novels.Austen drew her with detail and brilliance, and Graeme-Smith coloured her in with a modern brush. He explains with a little more depth why Mr Darcy is attracted to the kick-arse zombie slayer. But I already explained this.

4. Katniss Everdeen - Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins)
She really isn't the kind of girl to readily be friends with just anybody. But she is fierce and determined and loyal. She is a bit of an emotional amputee, but there is a number of them in my real-life. Plus I do have a bit of a superman complex.

5. Ron Weasley & Hermione Granger - Harry Potter (JK Rowling)
I probably would only be friends with Harry through these other two. Ron is funny, and Hermione is way too clever. Harry is just a wee bit moany and self-centred to be totally my tribe.

6. Leslie Burke - The Bridge to Terabithia (Katherine Paterson)
This was my go to book of my teenage angst. Far too young for me at that age, but the magic of the friendship between Leslie & Jesse was something that I really wanted to be a part of. I'm beginning to see the pattern here of fearless and gutsy chicks who defy a stereotype and don't mind getting dirty. Leslie fits this again, and she is a pretty awesome girl.

7. Ellie Linton - Tomorrow When The War Began (John Marsden)
When faced with horrors and struggles, it is always the natural leaders that you want to be with. But even without the pressures of war, and the difficulties of having almost everyone you love held in prisoner of war camps, Ellie would be a great gal to have around. She is a little bit country, and a little bit rock and roll. I know girls who come from this life, this small town rural existence. And some of these girls are my real life besties.

8. The BFG - The BFG (Roald Dahl)
My dad used to call this book, and this character, Bloody Good Friend. Despite the dyslexia in interpreting the acronym, he was right. The Big Friendly Giant is indeed a bloody good friend. And who wouldn't want a friend like this? This was deadset my favourite book in the world when I was a kid. So it seems totally fitting that he appear on a list like this.

9. D'Artagnan - The Three Musketeers (Alexandre Dumas)
A lover, and a fighter. Can wield a sword, and undoubtedly a loyal friend. Plus his ability to drink and kick arse would undoubtedly be useful.

10. The Bunyip - The Bunyip at Berkley's Creek (Jenny Wagner)
He is a lost soul - but aren't we all? In the midst of a total identity crisis. This picturebook is pretty seminal in my growing up, and his hunt for self-discovery is pretty much a clear metaphor for everyone's self-doubt and uncertainty. But despite his odd looks, he is friendly and welcoming and I reckon would make a pretty good BFF.

Pain of the suburbs

2010-12-18T22:41:00.000-08:00

Brendon Cowell can write. He wrote a number of episodes of the brilliant Love My Way. He has been a highlight of the Australian theatre, film and television scenes for a number of years. And he has recently released his first novel, How It Feels.

And it is beautiful.

Neil Cronk is a theatrical and creative young man, trapped in the suppressive suburbs of the Shire. His friendships, family and romantic relationships in his school years are rich and real, and his desperation to ditch all things suburban is almost tangible. In these relationships and this suburban peninsular he feels perpetually judged and trapped (I knew that feeling). He escapes to the freedom of studying theatre at university (I knew that too) and his ego thrives unchecked and rampant through his life of performance and debauchery (I may or may not have known that as well). He suffers and struggles through the whole process of identity and relating to others as the epidemic of young male suicide sweeps through the Australian suburban landscape.

This book is ultimately about friendship, and what it means to be a Man. As in, a grown up, functioning human Man that can cope with shit and get shit done. Neil Cronk spends most of the book not knowing this.

There are passages of this book that gave me a phisiological response. His description of London, and all things that are "so very London" gave me a true physical nostalgia, a pain of memory. His anxieties about letting others in, about letting himself out, about dropping that all important macho ego wall of rebuff evoked the men I love so vividly. Neil Cronk is by no means a likable character, but he is so three dimensional in his construction. While reading this, I kept needing to remind myself that this is NOT a memior of Brendan Cowell, but the details of his life that I know of really do mirror that of Cronk.

The Australian literature landscape has been in desperate need of some weighty contenders, with youth, and vigour and gravitas. I hope Cowell writes lots lots more.

The Great Annual Sigh

2010-12-17T19:29:00.000-08:00

Here it is. The greatest feeling a teacher can know. The stretching out of weeks of non-commital down time. Time to catch up on a much ignored blog, on the pile of long ignored books to be read, and on the hours of well ignored DVDs.

These past few weeks have brought some pretty tricky times, and I am still kind of bracing myself - I don't want to jinx it by thinking it might be over. Distracting myself with relaxation seems to be the only logical thing to do?

So I am hoping the next month or so is going to bring much happier times, much less angst and pain and uncertainty. Fewer reports, and more frosty beverages.

The answer

2010-10-22T21:10:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, I used this blog as a place to vent some bile about a nasty teaching experience. And within that post was the oft asked question, 'Why do you want to teach?'

This question has been raised and answered so often in the positive in the last few weeks.

I had my first ever Pracky (trans: Practicum teacher - student teacher, trainee teacher). And she was BRILLIANT. The kind of person who walked into the classroom with confidence, with enthusiasm, with drive to make the next hour of the students' lives engaging, rewarding and productive. Having a Pracky can be a bit draining, can be a bit disheartening. But this Pracky inspired me to reinvigorate my teaching, to reinvent the way I look at texts and learning.

Plus this has also been the season for letting go of the big kids - Year 12 have done their English papers and are beginning to pack up and leave The Boy Factory for good. Seeing the fellas that I have been teaching since they were in Year 10 finally get the idea of how to write an intro, finally let the penny drop about what anthropomorphism is (and how to spell it), and finally drop the facade and ask for help with drafting a practice response... Let's just say it is Rewarding.

I teach because I love it. I'm not in it for the big bucks (HA!), and I am not in it "for the power" as one of my not-so-wise students last year thought it might be. I don't do it for the 11 weeks of holidays (though I was told yesterday that part of our IR agreement takes into account the fact that only 4 of these is considered annual leave - the rest is meant for prep and time in lieu for all the out of hours marking/reporting etc). I don't do it for the cruisey hours - I've done 9-5 and it is far far cruisier.

I actually love building a relationship with my students. I like the fostering of mutual trust. I love the idea that I can trust them (I rarely lock my door, despite living on site with 400 teenage hoodlums) and I like that they can trust me enough to bring me their crises and their deeper questions.

I am going to try to remember to re-read this post the next time one of them hurls a choice four-letter word at me. Or the next time a parent accuses me of being incompetent or unapproachable. Or the next time some doofus (whose only experience of school is hating it when he/she went there) slags off the laziness or the fiscal demands of teachers. Or when I feel like I am drowning in the marking/report writing/prep, and am in serious need of a snorkel.

Hooray for loving my job!!!

Supercoach: The Road to The Finals

2010-09-11T20:19:00.000-07:00

As I have bemoaned before, The Mighty U14s haven't really been up to scratch since Round 1. The first game we played reflected the pre-season training. Trust. Passing. Space. Talk. The 4 cornerstones of my coaching rants.

This week was do or die. And other such sporting cliches. After 2 weeks of nursing injuries (a fight with a bathroom sink for the skipper, a fractured footbone for the right back) and illnesses, thanks to The Boy Factory Plague, and wet weather and exams affecting our training schedule, we have been receiving results that reflected our complete lack of fitness and confidence.

And with The Green Machine trouncing us 2 weeks in a row, they have been nipping at our heels, closing our healthy gap of 9 points down to 1 point. With West Bubblefuck Football Association (rant about them to be found here) have canned the usual semi-finals season, due to so many wet weather weekends, a second place finish is essential.

So this weekend we faced Top of The Table. We have been comprehensively beaten by them before. We've also given them a touch up once, and then drawn in another game. One might say - specifically, my striker - we're pretty evenly matched.

Coming in to the match, there were nerves. A few golden rev up speeches by myself and my sidekick-supercoach.

For 80% of the game, they played like warriors. Focused. Energetic. With sharing and talking and teamwork. There was a moment in time that I turned to my sidekick and said "They're asleep. They've switched off." And within 20 seconds, Top of The Table had scored the softest goal I have ever seen. The backline were caught napping, and a not-that-hard ball was put through past the too-far-forward keeper. It barely rolled against the upright before dribbling across the line. My boys had their heads down, and at half time, we were down 1-0. At one point, I actually saw stars. A little too much shouting, and not quite enough inhaling.

More rev up speeches about intensity at half time. Sidekick got a little loose with some profanities, and lied to say that The Green Machine were up 1-0 in the game on the other side of the park, in an attempt to put some fire in their bellies. The striker tried to have a gripe about the sloppy defence, which may have been warranted. But I hit back with the instruction that the front line needed to share with each other more.

Onto the field again, a little more hungry for the ball. A soft call of being pushed over at the top of the box led to a beautiful penalty that was near impossible to save. And then we're down 2-0.

But as if from nowhere, desperation became hunger, which was converted into 2 quick goals.

2-2 at the whistle!!!

And The Green Machine drew with Bottom of the Ladder!!

At this stage, we're in the final. Sure there is the small matter that we have played 3 games less than all the other teams in the comp, but I really don't see how that can be recitified by next Saturday. Just like Mr Shue in Glee, I feel like I have pushed my team all the way to Regionals. Except we're not going to do a Journey medley.

The Gods of Seinfeld

2010-09-11T19:57:00.000-07:00

If you are curious as to where my life is at, and also the state of Lil Bro's life too, please just watch Season 7 Episode 2 of Seinfeld, "The Postponement".

The prophetic Gods of Seinfeld are so much more accurate than Jonathan Cainer or any other lame astrologer with a flaky voice. The Gods of Seinfeld speak of marriage, break ups, choosing to be an adult.... And hot hot coffee.

Springing

2010-09-03T05:06:00.000-07:00

In September, things are going to change.

I am not going to let the petri dish of The Boy Factory knock me down again.
I am going to return to optimum, gym-going health.
I am not going to take up chocolate again.
I am going to do a little work each day rather than get stuck cramming before deadlines.

I will be resilient, and energetic, and open.

This be the Plan of Spring.

The Century Club Part Deuce

2010-09-03T04:53:00.000-07:00

The sequel to the epic and incredibly self-indulgent list of things that make me happy. Written entirely to pull me out of the doldrums, in cases of emergency.

51. My terrible cake decorating - Famous on Facebook. Blogged about here. My shame is mixed inextricably with my own self-deprecating pisstaking disgust at myself.
Eg:

52. Being called a Bitch - But only by a select number of people. My head teacher, for example. In a way that only he can get away with. You know you're boss respects you and likes you when he can call you a bitch and nobody gets hurt.

53. Crouching 80s Hidden Acronym - A random name for a ragtag collection of incredibly talented musos. This band is fronted by my brother, a nauseatingly brilliant human who has the Midas touch, but in a good way. With incredibly high energy and volume, they carve up each tiny stage they play on, tearing the venue and the crowd apart with their guitar riffs, erratic bass lines, screaming sax, tiny hunchy keyboard and harmonised vocals. Most of the stuff they do is original, but I love the fact that the bulk of their covers were originally released before they were born. Crowd favourite is Bowie's 'Let's Dance', and it is oh so amusing to see and hear a bunch of screamy teenyboppers go nuts over a song that is almost as old as I am! You can check them out on the unearthed site and at live.fm too.

54. Use of the word SOLEMNISE - Which of course sounds like 'Sodomise'. An amusing addition to any wedding ceremony, of course.

55. This photo:

Taken at sunrise, at the top of Arthur's Seat, overlooking the bay in Edinburgh. Sleep deprived and fueled almost entirely with vodka, this night/morning goes down as one of the best moments of the tour. Plus the fact that Simon (pictured) is only moments away from being punched in the makes it infinitely more amusing!

56. Winning at Trivia - Back in The Big Smoke, weekly pub trivia was just that... weekly. The Paddington Darts and (insert topical/amusing statement here) team were pretty gun. My competitive spirit got a weekly outlet. And I usually got to be scribe, but that was mostly because my voice is too loud, so even when I whispered answers, it would come out as a bellow. Now, triv is only something I get to dabble in when I get down to The Big Smoke for a holiday.

57. The big speech from The Witches - Back in my thespian days, I got to play The Grand High Witch in a production of Roald Dahl's The Witches. And I still know most of her epic speech by heart. Which impressed/frightened my year 7 class last year!

58. Pretty much everything Tim Burton does - Maybe it appeals to the emo in me. Wait, it probably pre-dates emo, so I am going to have to say it appeals to the goth in me. Like the aforementioned stripey socks. I love TB's aesthetic, with its twisty curled branches and slightly skewed framing. Of course, the inclusion of Johnny Depp, doesn't hurt either...

59. Q'est que cest that bird? - freaky suspended scare crows do wonders for the ambiance of a wedding, right?

60. Wearing brooches - especially when they are particularly random. My favourite is a little Lego pirate I bought at the Glebe markets. The Boys at The Factory cannot cope with such randomness.

"Miss, why are you wearing a Lego man?"

Gotta keep them guessing!

61. Ellen Page - She is just so goddam cute. Plus she is in Juno. And Whip It.

62. Knitting - I haven't done much this winter. And it really is a winter sport. West Bubblefuck in Summer is NOT friends with knitting. But there is a cupboard full of un-knitted yarn that I really should get my needles into. Best way to turn my brain off, kind of like constructive meditation.

63. Dirty sign language - Did you know that the signs for Vagina and Samosa are very similar. Sign language is ingenious in the way it turns words into actions. Watching Adam Hills' DVDs is great for my love of this, as he often has a signing interpreter... and he exploits them outrageously.

64. The fight scene in High Fidelity - I have been trying to find a still of the scene, right where Tim Robbins gets smashed in the teeth with the telephone. But it won't be found. A simple piece of slapstick that really shouldn't appeal to me, but it gets me everytime.

65. The Banjo Diva - I won't post the video of her playing. For fear of humiliation, though that would not be the purpose of posting it. My darling aunt learned to play 'Happy Birthday' for her mother's 80th birthday. The fact that my nauseatingly talented brother outplayed her was not very gracious of him, but it made for some hilarious times. And thus she became The Banjo Diva. I'm hoping she'll learn how to play 'Here Comes The Bride' before Scott & Rose's wedding!

66. Pyjamas - I have actually banned myself from buying any more. I am a big fan of flannies, and I love the fact that getting into PJs is almost like putting a full stop on the day. There will be no more trawling the halls of The Boy Factory if the jarmies are on!

67. Being a ranga - even though Gem says I am not allowed to call myself that. Originally I died it as a way of taking control of my life while living at home with my parents as I fast approached the ripe old age of 30. But I have been back again and again to the rouge, the rust, the roux, the ranga.... But only a ginger can call another ginger ginger.

68. The fact that DVDs are tax deductable - because there really does need to be some perks to being a teacher.

69. Any time this number us written anywhere - because really I am a puerile, juvenile, immature monkey who giggles at just about anything. My school friend Adam used to call it a "Danne-ism". Sparky today called me a "Smut". Smut as a proper noun? I like it!

70. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip

Why aren't I in charge of the world? Or at least in charge of world wide television programming...?

Aaron Sorkin is a genius scriptwriter. Tommy Schlamme can direct for TV. In this, the golden era of the TV series, they created a golden crusted gem of a series. That only lasted for 1 season.

Set in the hectic insanity of the creation of a weekly live comedy sketch show a-la Saturday Night Live. But the show is more about the drama behind the scenes that the comedy in front of the camera. Matthew Perry doesn't stretch too far from Friends's Chandler. Bradley Whitford isn't sketched too far from The West Wing's Josh Lyman. But there is merit in almost recreating these well loved characters in a new context.

While the fact that this show was bitterly brief makes me want to wobble my bottom lip. But the fact that there are 22 beautifully crafted episodes to go back to is surely a reason to smile.

71. Frankie magazine -
[voice over in the style of a blockbuster film]
In a world where retouching and eating disorder are all too powerful.

image via

In an industry where diets and weight loss plans are used to get titles off the shelves.

In a nation where celebrity is king, and obsession with fame is choking us all

Comes a magazine that is so refreshing, so charming, so self-referential and based on the [shock horror] the ARTICLES (and not in Playboy kind of way).

Craft, life, cute brooches and tshirts. Art, music and other miscellany. A good read every 2 months!

73. Licking the bowl clean - Almost the best thing about baking is licking the spoon and bowl. Of course, having tasty tasty brownies is fantastic, but the juvenile joy of getting that gooey mixture everywhere is so sweet!

78. When someone I teach decides they want to be a teacher - I am not saying it is ME that is the reason. I just like it when someone else recognises what an amazing opportunity teaching is. And as much as it is hard work, and as much as putting up with teenagers being total douchebags, and with mammoth amounts of paperwork, and with total bullshit hoops to jump through, it is a really rewarding and enjoyable career.

79. My father's beard - The status quo for me is a Bearded Father. When all three of us were babies, when he was beardless, we would treat him like a stranger. His beard matches his personality, his body and his face. It is a pretty identifiable feature that easily says "Hey, I'm Chopper"
I work with Dad at The Boy Factory. Every 12 months or so, he ditches the facial follicles. Gives his baby-face a breather.
And I love how seriously everybody else takes this. His beard is so much a part of the culture of the school, that everybody feels like they have a claim of ownership. They all ask me "What do you think about your dad's beard?" I just think it is hysterical that everyone thinks they get a say!

78. X-Men - I used to love the cartoon. I LOVE the films, especially the first 2. I have almost finished reading the epic and wrist breaking X-Men 1, the compiled original comic books - described by my head teacher as the "nerdiest thing you have ever done". I can't WAIT for the next movies - there are FOUR in pre-production! Once again, my incredible capacity to geek shines through!

79. This picture

via here

Because I hate Twilight so much. And I don't much like hairless cats either. Unless it is Mr Bigglesworth...

80. This girl:

The Darby Monster is a total joy. Even when she is cranky pants. She almost has my birthday, and already I can see we like all the same stuff. Must be that early April thing. Three Cheese Omelette at the Toothie. Bacon. Birds on tshirts. Coffee (well, she digs babycinos more). MaryJane shoes. Twirling around for no apparent reason (I don't make time for that anymore... Note to self: make some twirling time).

This blonde bombshell is kinda the first of the next gen. The B Team (B by name, not order of awesomeness) were the first of my inner circle to build a baby, and what a babe she is!!

81. Eggs on the weekend - hungover or not, it just seems not like the weekend, unless there is eggs in the morning. Apparently the Heart Foundation just increased the number of recommended eggs for human consumption from 2 per week to 6. This makes me happy.

82. Yoga - I didn't want to like Yoga. My mum likes Yoga. But despite my desire to not like it, I really do. Except I don't much like the sitting still and breathing for an hour yoga. I like the moving around kinda stuff. Perhaps it is my supreme impatience, or my inability to sit still, or the fact that the whole navel gazing introspective thing makes me a little uncomfortable (even that admission feels a little bit too much like naval gazing to me...) But a few good warrior poses and downward dogs, with just a tiny bit of falling asleep at the end makes me get that still, contented smile.

83. Pancakes - Not the fluffy batter gently fried into cakey circles. But the alcoholic beverage kind. A lick of sugar, a shot of Frangelico, and a suck of a slice of lemon. Tastes exactly like a pancake with lemon and sugar on top. It creates a god-awful mess on benchtops of houseparties. And because Frangelico isn't a kick you in the back of the head percentage of alcohol like say, tequila, it seems to mix OK with beer, or wine, or whatever beverage of choice is that evening, without the excruciating headache the morning after. Well... mostly.

84. James McEvoy

Recently I have heard him being accused of being too thin to be hot. This is a blatant lie. Sure his face is not the usual chiseled and jutting structure that is generally required for hot. He is an unlikely thief. And unlikely action star. A very likely dorky university student. A very fitting wrongly accused gardener. A perfectly formed faun. And even more exciting - and by exciting I mean I am having a physiological response here - McAvoy is named to play Francis Xavier in X-Men: First Class. So much anticipation!!!!!

85. Shots of London in films - especially stuff around the South Bank. The Eye. Waterloo Bridge. Hungerford Foot Bridge. The Tate. Love Actually was actually shot when I was living there in Waterloo, just down from the OXO Tower. We used to sit on the bench that Liam Neeson sat on. Some of the cast came in for post-work drinks. Including the very scrummy Andrew Lincoln ("Egg is in our pub!! Egg!!!!") (Hear that name? Just dropped it...). Shots in Edinburgh and Sydney make me grin too, but what with London being one of the most exciting cities in the world... it tends to turn up in quite a few more films than my other beloved cities.

86. That Girls - There once was a road trip, in the midst of the 21st season - that time when almost every weekend for the duration of 2 years in which the prime social real estate of Friday and Saturday nights were occupied by a 21st birthday. Or several. The road trip ones were for the truly committed. This particular one was up the coast at Woopi.
And it was on said road trip that the That Girls were formed. We were all That Girls in the car. The kind of girls that Aren't Well Liked. And it the unity makes us stronger!

87. Spies - Really great spy shows and spy films are spectacular. Last night I reminded my mother of James Bond and his Christmas Jones jokes. Gold. Sidney Bristow and her brilliance in a wig is unsurpassed (though I think Channel 7 is just about to attempt to launch something to compete... doesn't quite look as good though). Chuck kicks arse. Bourne rocks. All manner of acronyms - the CIA, MI5, KGB... ASIO doesn't quite have the same ring to it. I wonder if there is much of a call for English teachers to join ASIO... Probably not, huh?

88. Waking up WITHOUT a headache - especially when you have been sick for a while. Of course, being in the Germ Factory - oops, I mean The Boy Factory - I am living in a bit of a petri dish. And what with my completely decimated immune system (thanks Baxter College), if there is some kind of lurgy going around, chances are my sinuses and my tonsils will take that ball and run with it. There's a mixed metaphor, from petri dish to ball running in 2 lines!!

89. Waking up WITHOUT an alarm clock - The moment of joy that there was nothing that woke me up except a fullness of sleep. Ah, bliss.

90. Dystopian Young Adult Fiction - especially The Hunger Games and Chaos Walking. Just bought Hunger Games 3 this arvo! Am trying SO hard not to read it right now, because then it will be over!! I have harped on about this one already, over here.

91. This website: Kermit Bale

92. Afros with specs - and the fact that every time I see a guy with a fro and glasses, I think of Moss. Seriously, it happened in downtown West Bubblefuck last week!

The IT Crowd is just further evidence that Channel 4 are doing the greatest things in TV in the world.

93. All of Monty Python - even though now they are all a bunch of sexist, too rich to be funny, old men. But in their day... Well, they were a bunch of puerile, rediculous, sexist young men. But funny as hell.

94. The book of metal pages that holds all the wisdom of the sea - On the end of the promenade at Bondi Beach is a tombstone. An epitaph. An empty plinth to remind us of the Book of Metal Pages That Holds All The Wisdom Of The Sea. It is no longer there. But its wisdom is not forgotten.
"Some eat leftovers"

95. The Chaser - Undergraduate, private school boy humour it might be. But I miss them railing against everything in their War. I was delighted to see them back in The Great Indecision of 2010 in Yes We Canberra. Being media whores is not endearing to them really. They work much better together as a team.

96. This video:

The only thing this is missing is Joany and her awesome curves!

97. Scrabble - All new addiction on my BFF, oops I mean my iPhone. I say all new, but this has been going on for at least 7 weeks. And is isn't Scrabble (c), like proper brand name Scrabble. It's actually called Words with Friends. It has become somewhat of an addiction - I can play it with peeps all over the world!

Scrabble is always the opportunity for less-than-clean word usage. A dinner party with The A-Team in Edinburgh resulted in this:

The sad part of the story is that the BEST words have been cut out of frame, in a tragedy of drunken photography.

98. The ocean - Being in it. Watching it. Listening to it. There is something about the sea that reduces problems to insignificance. How can something be big in comparison to the ocean?

99. Free stuff - like getting given a free chocolate mousse when all you really feel like doing is bursting in to tears. Sure fire cheer-upper-er

100. This list - Having 100 things that make me smile makes me a pretty lucky human. There are more than this list can name. But these are the ones that come to my without trying very hard.

I am a lucky girl. I'm pretty fun. I have great friends, and they show me everyday that I am loved. No matter what happens, I am lucky to be this happy.

The Century Club Part I

2010-08-31T05:29:00.000-07:00

This be my 100th post. One Hundred opinions, rants and observations!! (NB - had to split it in to 2 posts. Turns out 100 is a big number!)

So here is my list of 100 things that do not fail to make me smile. This list was started a little while ago, in a Top 6 style post. So here are the other 94. Feel free not to read at all, if indeed anyone is reading this at all... I thought it a fitting way to celebrate my longevity as a blogger! From the inane to the profound, the tasty to the tasteless.

Make no mistake, I am not really expecting anybody to read all this. I am writing it for myself (which is really the reason I blog in the first place), and so I have an easy reference point when shit goes down (and I am expecting a shit storm soon. the shit weatherman has told me so) and I really need to crack a smile.

1. Peeling the top off the butter - Simple joys. A bit like peeling off a label from a beer bottle, but more satisfying. And I can't really explain why...?

2. The change of tempo in Franz Ferdinand's "Take Me Out" - (previously blogged about here) This part of this song will always always always result in the stereo or headphones being cranked right up high, and I usually make the white man's overbite with unbridled joy. Such joy!!!

3. Clean pyjamas in clean sheets - When bedtime is just awesome, in a clean, non-entendre kind of way.

4. The bell on Friday at 3.15pm - This means that there are hours of time with diminished Boy Factory influence. Of course, there is no off position on the English Teacher switch. There is not really a bottom of the pile of things to do. But at least on the weekends, procrastination is just a little more guilt-free. Except in football season, when of course all attention goes to the Mighty U-14s...

5. Michael Cera's face

Double-dare-physical-challenge not to giggle at that mug!

6. My dog realising I am holding the lead and leaping into the air with joy - Because he is a bit of a stupid dog. He does do stupid things. Like bang his head every time he walks past his kennel. Which might explain why he is so stupid... But he understands the signifyer of a human bending down to pick up his lead. It's WALKING TIME!!! Of course being a lazy lab, he gets about half way through the walk and wants to go home to his food bowl and his cushion...

7. Bad Puns - If the green pea rolls of the plate, it is an Escapee. If there are 2 old wooden buckets in a glass cabinet in a museum, they are Pails in Comparison.
A meal of roast lamb will no doubt result in comments of "feeling sheepish, aren't ewe?"
I have heard that the pun is meant to be the lowest form of humour. I wholeheartedly disagree. That honour lies with Two and a Half Men.

8. The Mysterious Ticking Noise - This video:

Catchy use of a metronome. Combination of Harry Potter characters AND puppets???! Gets me every time!

9. Red Mary-Janes - I know, I know, it is such a cliche for a girl to like shoes. But as far as addictions go, I am sure that this is slightly less expensive than cocaine. And perhaps a little better for the structural integrity of my nostrils. I mean, how many pairs is too many pairs? These ones I bought today:

10. The Mighty U-14s - Like the Mighty U-13s before them, I put a great deal of energy into these kiddies. Training once a week. A few hours on the weekends. I go in to battle to reclaim points that should never have been stolen. I organise extra matches against snooty private schools. I am somewhat vocal in my encouragement and instructions on the sideline... this sentence may be a slight understatement. I have been known to lose my voice due to this coaching style. I have been known to theatrically collapse onto my back when a well crafted attack fails at the last moment. When these kids try, they make me laugh and smile and giggle. They don't even need to win, they just need to give it a red hot go.

11. Mondegreens - Someone getting the lyrics wrong to a song is a delight. Especially when they are totally sure of themselves. Some of my favourites include:

"I've got no towel! But I've got undies on! You're never gonna keep me down!", made famous by one-hit-wonder of the 90s, Chumbawamba. Apparently, all the rest of their songs are anarchist anthems...? (this one courtesy of a friend of Sparky's)
"And I sold my soul with my cigarettes, to the black marching band" from Australia's favourite drinking song (from one of brightest yr 12 kiddies at The Boy Factory)
"But to shower you with visits, would do you no good at all", which would make no sense from Powderfinger at all! (thanks little bro!)

And while I was actually writing this blog entry my little bro has struck again with this golden gem:

For more of these little gems, look to kissthisguy.com, named after Jimi Hendrix... who was actually asking to be excused so he could "kiss the sky"...

12. Spaced - The greatest TV show ever created. Previously blogged about here. Also publicly loved by this lovely lass here. Launchpad to fame for director Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Scott Pilgrim etc), funny men Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. Comedy gold, with a homage-a-meter!!

13. My girls - I have previously mentioned that many moons ago I directed a play called The Women. All female cast and crew, a labour of love that was so much hard work, and so much joy, that has continued through many many years. If I need a grin, these lasses will provide, no questions asked!!

14. Tshirts - I like to wear my sense of humour on my sleeve. Or on my heart and belly, really. Threadless is based in Chicago, and is a user-based internet success story. Any punter can be a member. Any member can submit a design, and fellow members rate the design out of 5. The highest rated get printed! There's two different kinds of designs, really. The arty ones that are aesthetic and fine - I think of them as the feathery ones. And the cartoony ones that are usually a visual pun, with more simplistic lines and colours. I like the latter better. JD wears Threadless tees on Scrubs. Todd sports them on The Gruen Transfer. I get a threadless-length tan line in summer. My favourite ones are:

The Communist Party (Karl Marx is my favourite) and 99 Luftbalons. I am on my second tshirt for both of these designs, having worn them til they disintegrated!

15. Tina Fey - I have a massive girl crush. Funniest chicka in the world. 30 Rock = comedy gold, and the moment when Sarah Palin was named as running for VP of the USA, she just must have rubbed her hands together with glee. "I can see Russia from my house!"

16. Blacks and Cans - yes, yes, I am a Drama Queen. T even bought me a mug that says so. I tend to lead a fairly dramatic life, and tend to overreact to things a little bit. And when I first got bitten by the theatre bug, it was all about being in the limelight, the centre of attention. All about the glory. But when I was about 15 I tried my hand at Stage Management. And have hardly looked back at all. From the first little hit of the production meetings and casting process, to hunting down a cheap crystal whiskey decanter. Mixing the poster glue. Burning the candle at both ends with mega-hours put in at bump in. Pandering to childish whims of actors. Giving notes that contradict the director. Handing out flyers in a foreign city. Grinning from ear to ear as the lights go down and the applause comes up. It is stressful and hectic and time consuming and not very glorious. But that little spark of knowledge that there is no way it could have been done without me is my own little moment of glory.

17. Personalised coffee art - The Toothie does the best coffee in West Bubblefuck. I have been a most loyal customer since I first returned back to town, based on their expert use of the oh so tasty Merlo beans. And when my doubleshot flat white is delivered with the spectacular coffee art by one Samantha Kelly, who wouldn't smile like a goose!

2340, 15 White Street, Tamworth NSW 2340

18. Brendon Burns - Australian comedian in exile. Yes, he is offensive. Yes, he is self-indulgent. But he remains my most favoured stand up comedian, which remains my most favoured art-form. Previously blogged about here, and now seen... seven times live? Wow. Groupie much?

19. The photo at the top of this blog - and the fact that the cloud looks like a racing snail, zooming across the sky! And the fact that I changed the photo from an image of the Glebe Point Bridge (representative of all things urban) to this whimsical rural road trip shot. Symbolic of my acceptance of my not-so-new life in West Bubblefuck.

20. Couch time - Living in my own little corner of the Boy Factory, surrounded by the noise of their shenanigans. There is one place within my lovely little flat where the noise, the rascalling and the minor riots do not affect me.

My comfy, cushiony couch time is so so sweet. Plus purchasing this baby felt like a milestone, like it was further evidence of me being a grown up.

21. The A-Ha moment - and not the 80s one-hit-wonder with the brilliant animated music video. Being a teacher, especially an English teacher in the Boy Factory, I have to attempt to impart some pretty complex concepts. Like irony. Or perspective. Or implied information. But that moment when a kid gets it, the moment when he uses a hardcore analytical term CORRECTLY in conversation or discussion, the unbridled joy in too much to contain. I have been known to punch the air, face twisted in ecstasy, resembling something like a straight haired Elaine from Seinfeld. When one particular kid, who never really showed much affection for the mother tongue,correctly used "it's ironic, isn't it" in a PUB conversation (the year after he graduated, nothing untoward here!) I nearly fell off my barstool!

22. British Chocolate - It is difficult to explain, but chocolate from the British Isles tastes so much better than the Aussie stuff. Sure Cadbury has got their act together recently, with their new recipe and their new Fair Trade angle. But UK chockie is just creamier and meltier and so so sweet. Galaxy Bars can be sent to me, via The Boy Factory at any stage. Feel free.

23. Getting a follower for this here blog - I only have 2. My 2nd arrived today. *HI*!!! I don't know how many people read my less than coherent rangings, but I am a little bit of a sucker for some positive reinforcement...

24. Soda Stream - Making my own soda water does wonders for my life.

a) I don't create so much waste - 7 PET bottles a week was getting a little unruly

b) I get a little bit of fluoride for my teeth

c) I get to make that awesome PSSSSSST noise when I loosen the bottle from the shiny red machine (Red? Moi?)

25. The Gene Genie - In Life on Mars and later Ashes to Ashes, the shining light, the beacon, the blazing flame of resplendent awesomeness is Gene Hunt. Sexist, racist, bigoted, slightly corrupt, alcoholic. As I have previously said, I think he is the petrolhead, cop version of Mr Darcy. Insensitive, proud and sexy as hell.

26. Florence - The singer. As in 'And the Machine'. Not the city. Though the city was fun, with its Piazza del Nudie Rudie, and the Arno River - cause there Are No fish in it (see 7. Bad Puns). But the singer - with the porcelain skin, the flaming red hair and the voice of a dead set angel, who has been smoking a pack a day and drinks Irish whiskey, neat. Lungs is a brilliant album. Great music for any occasion.

27. Wearing stripey socks - Dunno why. I've always liked it. Don't like it so much when The Jealous Bitch (Sparky's dog) chews them up!!!!!! And even though the emo kids have kind have taken over a little bit, I don't care. I still love them!

28. The Oscars - Some divine friends of mine and I have developed a tradition. Each Oscars season, we try to watch as many nominated films as possible. Preparations start in November, as the field starts to take shape. Summer heat can be escaped in the overly cool air conditioned cinema.

Two awards are given - Most Films Seen and Most Films Picked in the tipping comp. Of course, being based in West Bubblefuck leaves me at a distinct disadvantage, what with out much maligned cinema being tres lame.

But of course it lights my ever-so-slightly competitive nature. And despite the fact that the Nine Network have been messing with the scheduling and the editing, I am still pretty enamoured with the whole Oscars Fest season.

29. References to The Wizard of Oz in The Simpsons - arguably the most referenced text in the incredibly awesome pomo animation. And everytime, it cracks me up!

30. Sparky - I guess at this point, representing my current age, and the party that he was instrumental in assisting me with, it might be a good time to mention the bf that makes me laugh. Even when the Boy Factory is getting me down. Even when I'm cranky pants, hungry, tired, disillusioned or feeling beige. Morning, evening, afternoon or wee small hours, this fella is truly a comedian and it was the very first thing that made me feel that first spark. Thanks, gorgeous! (OK, schmultzy part done!)

31. Stationery - Possibly the reason I became an English teacher. Do you know all my over-sized paperclips and teeny weeny staplers are tax deductible? Every trip to The Big Smoke involves a sneaky visit to BOTH kikki-k and Smiggle. And I cannot WAIT until West Bubblefuck gets an Officeworks!! Ah, it truly is the little things, right?

32. The Flames - Up until earlier this year, it had been some time since I had graced the boards of a basketball court. But based on a passing conversation and a loose commitment of "yeah, that sounds like fun!", The Flames were born! Sometimes referred to as The Boy Factory WAGS, this ragtag bunch of enthusiastic players range from the novice to the guru, the PE teacher to the gaspingly unfit. Last season we were PREMIERS... of C Division. We have been promoted and this season so far we are undefeated... But there has been some close calls. It feels great to be back in a team, back in a situation where I can find an outlet for my outrageously competitive nature. And the fact that a few of my team mates have grace, skill and the ability to shoot allows me to hide behind my defensive skills!

33. Fat babies - because skinny ones just aren't as cute. Don't get me wrong, I have seen some bloody GORGEOUS skinny infants, but studies show that fat ones actually make me much cluckier.*

*actual data not available

34. All of Harry Potter except the epilogue at the end of Book 7 - My brother's friend (Hi Dean!) is planning a walk-out at the end of Deathly Hallows Part II so as to avoid seeing that bitterly disappointing epilogue. But all of the rest of it is well constructed narrative, beautifully drawn characters and page-turning writing. Even Chamber of Secrets!

35 The dancing scene out of Little Miss Sunshine -

This scene doesn't just make me grin a little bit. It makes me laugh so hard that I cry. Even when I have seen it about a million times. Even when I am sitting at home alone watching it through my incredibly slow regional wireless internet (no comment Mr Rabbit). Without fail. Brilliant film.

36. Shameless namedropping - CLUNK Did you just hear that? It was the sound of me dropping another name. Like that time that Elle McPherson borrowed my hairbrush? Like that time I was in a lock in with Claire Danes in an enormous argument about the pronunciation of 'foyer' with a lovely Kiwi and a bunch of poms. Like the times I see my uni mates get beaten up or totally naked on Underbelly... It is pretty shameless and narcissistic. But I don't care!

38. Long beaded necklaces, combined with the phrase "La Douche" - I don't quite remember how these got from innocent to entirely filthy in one single conversation in a kitchen in Paddington. But now I cannot see nor hear these things without corpsing like mad.

39. Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars - I have committed to only buying these oh-so-comfy sneakers when they are on sale. Retail price Chucks are for chumps. I have been a bit smitten with this flat footwear for about 17 years now, through all of its incarnations of cool since the mid-90s. Grunge. Stage managing. The emo resurgence. Currently I have only a few in rotation... light blue, navy, red lace-less and ladybug pattern!

40. Squinty McPout - I love the fact that if Helen Hunt and Scarlett Johannson had a daughter, she might look like Renee Zelweger. And she would be known as Squinty McPout

41. Every time Vampire Bill says "Sookie" - it sounds like Sucky. Nothing like a Brit playing an American Vampire from the deep south!

42. Oporto - Fast food done so so well. The day one opened in town I was so so excited. A double fillet Bondi meal with extra extra chilli (when I was in the Big Smoke, it was only extra chilli, but it turns out in West Bubblefuck, the chilli dosage is lower), layered with some chips. There are a few boys from The Factory that work there, and they make it the best. Sometimes when it comes out, the wrapper says "Miss Chop". It's like I am some kind of celebrity

43. Sunsets - West Bubblefuck gets some stunning sunsets. Way better than The Big Smoke. Bigger, more colours, longer time... Though the 360 degree ones at Bondi were pretty fantastic too, I guess!

44. The drum solo in "Laid" - A song that is a favourite with trivia masters everywhere. And the drum break is best played on a steering wheel, with the stereo cranked, on a road trip somewhere.

45. Photo-Leg - The phenomenon of the female form being twisted slightly, front leg raised slightly to rest on the toe, chest thrust out. The kind of pose that chicks think makes them look skinnier. The kind of pose that makes them seem like a vacuous bint, and worthy of ridicule!

46. My espresso machine - As a part of the campaign of I'm A Grown Up Now, So I Need To Spend Money And Buy Stuff, my beautiful little robot was purchased. Gone are the days of plunger coffee and instant crap. When I used to get my fix on the commute, when I live AND work at The Boy Factory, I thought this little toy an entirely necessary gadget for my tiny tiny galley kitchen. My morning saviour... Ah, spoken like a true addict.

47. This photo -

48. Astolat Dayz - Nostalgia has a bad rep. Sentimental, living in the past... Whatever neg you want to throw at it, it has been slung before. I have done more than my fair share of share housing, on both sides of the globe. But my first share house was the best. Me and three fellas from Baxter managed to snaffle a big brick house in a quiet cul de sac, filled with found furniture and cheap crockery. We held cracking parties, did lots of shouting at the television and had epic games of Mortal Kombat. The house had a few different line-ups, and each had its merits. But as usual the original was the best. These boys all have wives now, increasing the pressure for me to find my own wife... In fact, they are the same girls they were together with when we lived together. We are now sprinkled all over the globe. We have only been completely re-united a few times in the last 10 years, but when it happens, it is a little bit like regression and a little bit like perfection. I love those dudes!

49. Frank Gallagher -

Toxic father. Brilliant character. Shameless is yet further evidence as to why the Brits make the best TV in the world.

50. S.T.A.M.P.S. Watches - Having an enormous watch face has an added bonus as a teacher. I can glance at it without giving it away to the Boys at The Factory. But I also like wearing a little bit of art on my wrist. I have 3 - a Barcelona Chair design, a Russian Soviet flag design and the record one pictured below!

to be continued....

Combination of 2 of the Best Things in the Universe

2010-08-31T05:12:00.000-07:00

Go here.

http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/27350111.html

Now.

Combining two of the greatest men the world has ever seen. (Aside from the less green one who possibly may have some anger issues.)

My love for Muppets finally meets my long standing admiration for Christian Bale

This is just the start:

Winter Blockbusters: Salty

2010-08-22T03:15:00.000-07:00

Angelina is a premier action star. Philip Noyce is a premier action director. Salt promised to be a tasty tasty action flick, and considering the pedigree, had the potential to be rich in storyline and thick with stunts.

I am delighted that this film doesn't have Tom Cruise in it. What with him being a shit excuse for an actor, and barely passable as a human being. What kind of creature denies the existence of mental illness??!?

The reason I include this, of course, is because the role was originally intended for the Tiny Man, but fortunately there was a scheduling clash. A win for all, I think. So Angelina was brought in, she of the anti-stunt double, anti-green screen. She who has almost as many tatts as she has children. She who used to wear a vile of her husband's blood around her neck. Pretty much hardcore, is what I am saying.

So to Salt. The set pieces were phenomenally good. Ripping a moving roadbike out of the hands of the rider. Enormous explosions on barges, and running up walls in hand to hand combat against security guards and the CIA alike.

But the plot was as thin as Angelina's waist, and seemed to leap about like she leapt from truck to speeding truck. The flashback sequences tried to hold some semblance of a storyline together, but I don't think they were strong enough. Spy stuff CAN have a plot. Bourne for example. Or Alias. Or Chuck. And Bond might be formulaic, but there is usually character development, even if it is the same character, doing the same developments everytime. I think possibly the filmmakers were trying so desperately to keep us in suspense that they forgot to let us in one just enough details for us to give a damn whether or not she was a goodie or a baddie.

But this is an action flick. Hard core popcorn. It doesn't NEED a plot to hang together!!!

The question of whether or not the audience has more sympathy with her because she is a woman...? I mean, really? Are we not past this yet? It is the same bullshit question about whether or not Gillard didn't get as many votes because she is a female. To be honest, I would think that it would make the audience more suspicious of Evelyn Salt that sympathetic. I mean, chicks don't trust chicks, what with us being conditioned to compete for jobs, fellas, maternity leave and the last size 41s in West Bubblefuck. And blokes don't trust chicks, because we are unpredictable and don't have a willy.

There are some lessons about action flicks and gender to be learned, as NY Mag reveals. Including the old died hair correlation...

But I trust Jolie more than I would trust Cruise. In pretty much anything.

Schmecorating

2010-08-21T23:16:00.000-07:00

I am not an exceptional artist.

I leave that to the more talented members of my family.

My brother can paint. Hell, he can pretty much do anything.

My cousin, Clare Bear, can print. And decorate cakes like some kind of freaky pastry chef. Her dad's 50th birthday cake was a chocolate bass guitar.

For Grandma's 80th birthday party, she did a collection of gorgeous little cupcakes.

When Grandma's real birthday came around a few weeks later, it was left up to me to do the decorating. Mum made a fruit cake. Handed me the candles. Told me to do something with them...

... Those candles are supposed to be in the shape of an M. For Mary.

It looks only slightly better lit up:

My most recent attempt, while incredible lazy and haphazard, actually looks about a billion times better. For a couple of dudes in the staffroom at school.

Buy a cake from the shop, already frosted
Find a Crunchie bar to two hidden in your desk drawer for the purposes of bribery of children or emergency chocolate rations.
Bash the chockie bar and sprinkle with complete abandon
Eat

Things that make you go Grrrrr

2010-08-20T23:04:00.000-07:00

Recently I have been trying very hard to consider the things that make me happy - the things that are guaranteed to make me smile (there is a fairly epic and self-indulgent 100th blog-post that I have been crafting over the last week or so... watch this space).

But in this last week, there seems to be a number of things that are making me furious beyond rage. That kind of anger when your thoughts are drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears. So in the interests of venting my spleen, of letting go of this carcinogenic bile, of returning to some semblance of contentment, allow me to rant a little.

West Bubblefuck Soccer Association
So I have already vented about my successful campaign to regain the points that were robbed from me and my merry band of U14s boys. But they still continue to frustrate me.

This weekend was a washout. At least, today was. Despite the beaming sunshine. But the catch-up day tomorrow is still on. Because what else does anybody want to do on a Sunday than do a re-run of Saturday.

And The Matriarch of Soccer in West Bubblefuck refuses to tell me where I can find the information about whether or not tomorrow is going ahead. Instead she demands that I call her to find out. Because she wants to be at the centre of the universe.

The Australian Media
If Tony "Bert" Abbott gets in as our new PM, I may well cry. Having said that The Redhead's policies of Education Funding are almost as depressing... But if The Right Wing Nut gets in, it will be because the Australian Media has allowed the Australian Public to forget about what a COMPLETE LUNATIC Abbott actually is. This is the man who referred to women 'saving their precious gift'.

This is the man who preached abstinence then was involved in a paternity situation. This man said he wasn't going to let his daughters get vaccinated for the cervical cancer vaccine! This man said that Aboriginals might just have to pick up rubbish because everybody needs a job.

This man shouldn't be allowed out of his own house, let alone be in charge of the House of Parliament!!!!

NSW Institute of Teachers
I finally submitted my accreditation report-that-is-in-no-way-a-portfolio-even-though-it-very-much-looks-like-a-portfolio-sounds-like-a-portfolio-walks-like-a-portfolio. The whole process was incredibly frustrating. And when I have needed assistance - finding a form, paying the $100 per year (gone up in 5 years by $20...) for the privilege of turning up to work every day - I have received nothing but rudeness and contempt from the 'ladies' on the other end of the line.

Now I am fine with paying a fee to a professional organisation in order to raise the standards of my chosen career to a profession. I am fine with jumping through hoops, and being accountable, and ticking boxes. It is all incredibly tedious, but if this is what needs to be done to turn teaching into a profession, then so be it. Of course, it stands to reason that as a professional, I should also get the 6 figure salary and instant respect from the general public and mainstream media too.

The whole process is so easily corruptible too. By ticking boxes and submitting a not-portfolio, I have proven that I am good at paperwork. Which is actually a total lie. I am shit at paperwork. However, now I have completed it, and it has been stamped on the back of each page, and signed in triplicate, I have now proven that I can teach to a level of "competent". Of course the hours of my life that the not-portfolio has taken away from the actual business of teaching - the marking, the planning, the welfare/pastoral stuff that I NEED to be doing in order to be successfully completing my To Do lists - seems to be a massive paradox. Should anybody wish to purchase my not-portfolio to save them the hours of hard work, I am happy to negotiate a fee. Of course, you may also need to bribe your supervising teacher to sign off that it is indeed your own work too, but that is your problem.

Gutless Wonders
If you want something, you ask for it. If you don't want something any more, then man the fuck up, and be honest.

Bullies & Thugs
Napoleon is alive and well, and living in West Bubblefuck.

Everybody has a job to do. Your job is important, no doubt. My job, also kind of important. I have no desire to make you feel like you are shit at your job, or that you need to be doing something different. I also have zero desire to hear your opinion on how I am doing my job. Got a suggestion, great. How about you don't frame it as an order from on high? How about you try to see that we're all working hard, and your little-man crankypants tantrums aren't helping things at all.

OK. Feel just a tad better after the rant. Vitriolic bile vented. Time to get on with my life.

Abbott Proof Fence

2010-08-18T05:50:00.000-07:00

*Thanks Ngaire for the title*

I have studiously avoided discussions of politics on this here platform. My lefty tendancies are oft alluded to, but this soap box is not really intended to steer votes or spruik policy. But it has been somewhat saturating my brain for the last few weeks.

Election time tends to morph me into a bit of a politics nerd. ABC doesn't really assist in this. The Chaser, Gruen, Tony "Silver Fox" Jones and Leigh Sales on Lateline, and of course Mega Ranga Kerry. I managed to lodge an 11th hour change of address. So now I am registered in West Bubblefuck - Mr Garret can't count on my preferences for his seat this year!

But what strikes me most about this year's campaign is not how eye-bleedingly dull it is. Not how the left and the right are shifting to sides of the centre that seem strange and surreal. Not how every fricking politician seems incapable of answering a question in a full and honest manner.

What strikes me is that nobody is mentioning how much Abbott looks like Bert!!!

Does nobody else see this??????? The irony being that Bert & Ernie seem to have been happily married, if not simply co-habitating for decades.

What a muppet...

Like son, like father

2010-08-16T14:54:00.000-07:00

I might have mentioned my mixed-metaphor middle brother? He who wanted to "borrow grandma's rosemary beads" to go to a Catholic uni. He who is fairly happy "with his plot in life". He who though there was "a really good cellibate" at the last wedding he went to. And my personal favourite, he who doesn't want to "butter around the bush".

But last night there was a hint as to where it came from. Dad was on the phone to some head honcho of rugby league, and he said "you know, I am pretty green behind the gills on these matters."

Gold from the patriach!

What Wright did next

2010-08-16T01:56:00.000-07:00

My love for Spaced is no secret. Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz are similarly adored. In my mind, director Edgar Wright can do little wrong.

My love for Michael Cera is similarly boundless. Such a perfectly symmetrical, awkward and bird like face. His comedy heart is smeared all over the golden Arrested Development, Juno and Superbad.

In the weeks leading up to the release of Scott Pilgrim vs The World, I have been engaging in some expectations management. I like to call it the My Girl effect. That bitter pill of disappointment you feel when something you have been looking forward to for so so long turns out to be not quite as awesome as you expected.

But even so, I was hitting extreme levels of excitement.

Dammit.

The plot follows Scott Pilgrim, Canadian slacker muso, with no job and a gay room mate. In his quest for self discovery and actualisation through the love of a good indie woman. The central premise is the difficulties of negotiating the past of your new partner. Through the metaphoric battles of wills, that in this film are physicalised, video game style.

I should be totally in love with this film. It is stylish and witty, with an eclectic mix of unpredictable characters with all the quirks that usually make me giggle. There are kickarse fight sequences, geeky allusions to all kinds of pop culture. Witty wordiness. A complete lack of judgement in issues of gender and sexuality. Frequent shifts in pace. It was a little bit Wes Anderson in feel, and a little bit like a manga cartoon. Basically it was all the stuff that I usually find smittening.

But I found it a little bit of a let down. Maybe because I was sitting next to the sleep-deprived-Wes-Anderson-hating-unartsy Sparky, who was frequently heard whispering "what the fuck is going on?" Maybe it is because my expectations were skyhigh, even though I thought I had them under control.

Maybe this film needs another chance. Or perhaps it is just better on paper?

When Flood Damage(s) is a good thing

2010-08-15T01:13:00.000-07:00

Just a few weeks ago, The Boy Factory was flooded in. As in, both roads to the "civalisation" of West Bubblefuck were completely cut off. Drive through at own risk, of being swept off the road, of having car impaled with debris, of forfeiting any insurance you might have... of being booked by the watchful constabulary.

Fortunatley I was all stocked up in the fridge. And with my beloved espresso machine, my caffeine addiction was sated. No Supercoaching, no Saturday morning omelette at The Toothie. Last year the Mighty U13s didn't miss one game due to weather. We did play our semi-final in a dust storm... This year it seems like we have only played half the season. Droughts and flooding rains indeed!

But the vindictive wealther finally gave me a chance to devour the highly recommended Damages. So many people have told me how good this show is, that I had already purchased both available seasons. And once I started watching, there was just no stopping me. Season 1 was consumed on Saturday, and 80% of season 2 was gobbled up on Sunday.

Set in NY city, in the cut-throat world of corporate law. The show focuses on the relationship between the meglamaniacal Patty Hewes (Glenn Close) and the rookie lawyer Ellen Parsons (Rose Byrne). The performances from these two incredible actresses are phenomenal, these characters stay with you, and colour the way you see the world for days afterwards. If I had have been at the mercy of Channel 9, having to wait a week between episodes, I may have gone insane with these two women in my head the whole time.

The structure is non-linear - starting with a flashforward and skipping between timeframes. The viewer sometimes knows much more than the characters, but is always asking so many questions. Why is Ellen covered in blood? Did she get attacked? Was she the attacker? Was Patty behind it? Every little piece of information given is both satisfying with the questions that it answers, and frustrating in the further question marks that are created. The fact that there is not a mysterious smoke monster or strange loops in the time-space contiunuum makes this show infinitely superior to the drawn out and convaluted Lost. Instead, at the end of each season, most questions are answered. Most character arcs are complete, with just enough open-endedness to spark up interest for the next season.

The powerplay between the Mentor and the Novice is central premise of each season. Trust and Power and Intention and Motivation. Whether the end justifies the means. This is not just a fluff-piece - the martini-swilling teenagers of Gossip Girl's NY are not here. There are slight parallels to The Devil Wears Prada, and seeing as I always have to think twice about the distiction between Close and Streep, I think those parallels are quite fitting. In fact, doe-eyed Byrnes is a little bit matching with doe-eyed Anne Hathaway too... But this is not the overly feminised world of fashion we're talking about here, but the masculinised realm of corporate law.

Gender is not something that is explicitly discussed, but the Woman In Power = Bitch is an idea that is played with - supported, subverted, questioned and affirmed. Whether or not a Woman Can Have It All. Patty Hewes sees herself as a failure as a mother. Incapable. Not wired that way. She is pretty discouraging of Parsons' engagement, and of motherhood in general. And maybe the fact that the show has been created by three blokes is reasoning behind this.

There are some other social commentaries throughout both seasons. Corporations are inherently evil, money grabbing bastards. Energy companies are manipulative and corrupt, with little regard for consumers or the environment. I imagine Season 3 has an equally topical case to chase down.

I can't believe I left this show on the shelf for so many months. Entirely addictive TV!!

Winter Blockbusters: The Explodables

2010-08-13T05:02:00.000-07:00

There are a heap of awesome films coming out soon. Summer season in the northern hemisphere means that the blockbusters are upon us. And I'm hoping to catch quit a few in the coming weeks.

But the first one was not a piece of cinematic brialliance. Don't get me wrong, I had a great time at The Expendables, but it is not chance going to set the world on fire. Even though that is what pretty much happens.

The line up looks like the who's who of 1980s action. Sylvester Stallone directing (that was the first giggle of the afternoon... and co-writing the screenplay! HA!) a bulge* of overly muscled and skin-stretched actors - and I use that term loosely... really I should say celebrities - in a shoot 'em up, blow 'em up, Almost A-Team style renegade bunch of ultra-violent mercinaries.

The storyline is thin indeed. South American dictator, financed by an ex-CIA slimy suit. Up against this band of merry men. The said Stallone script is less than thin - something closer to entirely implausible, ridiculous and farcical. Of course, the action-man one liner is there. And me, I love a great action one liner. The cheesier the better. But these were simultaneously the best and worst lines this film had to offer.

Joining Sly in this hyperbolic adventure is the rollcall of action stars. Jason Statham, Jet Li, Steve Austin... Mickey Rourke as the tritagonist tattooist... Obe Wan with silver streaks in his hair. Cameos of wrinkled close ups of Bruce Willis AND the Governator... The casting for this film was quite obviously a case of "well, such and such is on board"... "OK, I'll do it then". Watching the wierd skin folds of the overly plasticised Arnie, Sly and Mickey was a little off putting. The collagen in their lips, dressed in their all-too plucked facial hair made watching them speak a little bit like seeing fleshy, pink catepillars wriggle about on someone's face. They even look sillier than Meg "Fishlips" Ryan. And that is saying something!!!

Of course the highlight of the film was the set pieces. Car chases with improbable twists and turns. Bullet riddled fight scenes with baddies who can't seem to land a shot. Explosions aplenty from makeshift and improvised petrol bombs. The crunching of a broken neck in hand to hand combat. The crimson splatter of self-armed warheads ripping through flesh.

The low points... I don't really want to dwell on them to be honest. If I focus too long on what was shitty about the film, then I might lose that glow of fun and giggles. Shithouse acting. Rubbish script. And the fact the the females in the film (and there were ONLY two) were damsels in distress, requiring Statham and Stallone to swoop in and save them. I mean, as Sparky told me, I can't really expect anything less, considering the geneology of a film such as this. But considering this is the 21st century, I kidded myself into expecting just a tad more.

Plus the jokes at Jet Li's expense - his accent, his height, his Asian-ness - were pretty lame too.

I'm hoping that Salt and Tomorrow When The War Began live up to the Summer Blockbuster Dream a little better. But most of all, I'm looking forward to Scott Pilgrim vs The World!!!

*Here I go again, inventing fantastic collective nouns. I think that A bulge of action stars is a perfect collective noun!!

The universal truth about Fight Club

2010-08-12T05:30:00.000-07:00

I have never reviewed a YouTube ckip before...

My fondness for Jane Austen has been reported here many a time. I am indeed a latecomer to her genius, and I do love the modern stuff that has been done with her few novels. She has been transformed into a real horror show. She has been mashed-up with time-travel.

And now there is this puppy:

One of my favourite films, meets one of my favourite genres of novels and dramas. This is the REASON YouTube works!!

Olivia, Viola, Malvolio. Oh my!

2010-08-08T00:08:00.000-07:00

Lots of people have an opinion on Shakespeare. Mostly what they think is fairly non-complimentary (unlike bar nuts. They're complimentary), lots of "I never like all that Shakespeare mumbo-jumbo" or the irony of "it's all Greek to me." And then there are those who think that all we should teach the kiddies is Shakespeare because it is a 'classic' and therefore worthy of the classroom. (Thank you Miranda Divine. I kinda hate you too, just so you know.)

Teaching The Bard is challenging, and interesting, and difficult, and fun. Getting a bunch of Year 9 kids to read a scene from R&J and go "ah, I get it!" is joyous. Having the ratbags of Year 10 perform a scene from Macbeth in original language, but the context of surfer gangs a la Bra Boys is elating. Having Year 8 guys say "Miss, that sounds dirty" about Kat and Petruccio's Sting conversation, and assuring them that indeed they are interpreting it correctly - in the dirtiest way possible. (Funny thing is, the new Child Protection Policy, Keep Them Safe explicitly states we are not supposed to speak to students using double entendres or sexual innuendo. How is it POSSIBLE to teach Shakespeare without these, my favourite features of the English language?)

Every English Teacher and Shakespeare fan has a different favourite. Some like the tragedies, with the blood and guts and gore and raped women with no hands and no tongue. Some like the comedies that aren't funny at all, they're just called comedies because not everyone is dead at the end. One my colleagues likes Henry V for the epic speeches. Another likes R&J for the epic love story.

And my favourite is Twelfth Night.

It has all the usual golden moments of mistaken identity and twisted genders, disguises and deceptions, suspension of disbelief as small crowds stand directly behind someone, unseen and unheard. Shafts of double entendres (can we make 'shafts' the official collective noun for double entendres? any other suggestions?). A slightly unrealistic storyline, based on shipwrecks and true love. And a subplot about punishing the puritanic do-gooder for being a party pooper.

One of the drawbacks about living in West Bubblefuck, as I have bemoaned before, is the general wasteland of culture that we have. Our cinema is almost strictly a diet of blockbusters and romcoms. Previous to this year, the theatre scene has really only consisted of the local musical and dramatic societies murdering the scripts of modern classics. But since the opening of our very own theatre, the wasteland is beginning to look a little more colourful.

And one of the blooming cactus flowers was the touring production this, my favourite Shakers play, done by none other than Bell, Australia's most fabulous Shakespeare company. I saw the show last night, and LOVED it.

Bell always does wonderous things with context and modernisation. Created as a play, within a play, it is set within the context of Black Saturday. They have incorporated modern songs, sung a Capella or accompanied by acoustic guitar. Performed around an enormous pyramid of donated clothing, in which they find all the required props and costumes to create the story, and distract them from the devastation and loss and grief that has burnt through their lives.

As usual, they have imaginative dramatic devices to get around doubling-up actors (little bit of mime, little bit of half-worn costume... and a bell) and quick escapes by helicopter (tiny little model on a fly, dressed in miniature costume). The greatest uses of boxes since my brother and I made our baby brother a bat cave for Christmas out of a fridge box, used as disguises, as armour, as a gaol...

With a star turn from the very delightful and hysterical Ben Wood (last scene camping it up as a butch Emcee in NUTS production of Cabaret... OK, he has done other stuff since, but that was the last time I saw him on stage), I was privileged to have seen this production. If it comes near you (and it is pretty much going EVERYWHERE), you should go see for sure!

NB/ How can this be the FIRST post I have made about theatre? When I have been such an addict to the stage for such a long time? Evidence of the cultural wasteland, I suppose...